Josef Albers, Upward, 1926 (blue glass flashed on milk glass, sandblasted, with black paint; Albers Foundation, New York)
Michael Palmer’s “Autobiography 5” (from The Promises of Glass):
Not exactly a mark, not exactly a trace.
More like a segment of recording tape.
After I arrived I took a job painting broccoli, cabbage and squash
on supermarket windowsas I was putting on my face:
base, blusher, mascara, ultra high-gloss lip enamelwhen the word “zurückgehen” flooded my brain
as if spoken by the mirrorover the dressing table in which an image
no longer gathered much light, itsreflecting glaze having decayed.
We were so close that the waywe came apart was not even visible to the participants.
Then I became a painter of paintings brieflythen I eliminated paint.
Dear Phil, What a hellish season it’s been.For a time I thought I was another
but now I’m selling shovels and rakes, running a few gunsand awaiting the arrival
of a photographic apparatus.Perhaps if a gate deforms in parallax
a phrase will pass through it.Perhaps if a face can be recorded
but isn’t that another story?Isn’t there another story
consistent with sand?How it turns to mirror-glass
when heated in your hand.The sounds it makes
make another story.It’s completely silent here
so we hear nothing but high and low tonesconstantly
as we take inventory.The people come in shades of blue.
They take everything from you.
