By John Brockman
A thorough, experimental paintings that demanding situations the bounds of poetry, philosophy, and technological know-how. First released in 1969, this new and improved variation of John Brockman’s first ebook, through The overdue John Brockman, additionally contains the complete textual content of 37 (1971), and Afterwords (1973).
This variation contains a new foreword by way of Hans Ulrich Obrist, co-director of the Serpentine Gallery and writer of the way of Curating.
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Extra resources for By the Late John Brockman
Wallace Stevens, "Peter Quince at the Clavier" When the local disappeared fishing off Portage Entry on Father's Day last June already you'd heard the first morphemes of pain begin to whisper their one simple sentence, like the abstract sound of sense we hear in halls from voices behind doors that muffle the words. A hundred yards out from where you grilled steaks, boats and divers grappled the deadpan lake while you tried to tell your sons the meaning of drowned. Never early with deadlines, you made a plumb line of dying the next month and took not Christ but Bentham on your tongue while the otherstill missing, presumed drownedarabesqued unseen between present and past participles.
Wet dreams, foams, Trojans sneaked from wallets and bedside tables? You collect yourself and spell relief with Lana Turner, and once again you stand tall, zip, and buckle. Long ago you learned a man's credence derives from posture. In the hall you'll swagger slightly for the nurses. On tile, a brash silver tintinnabulation of sterling spurs. Like John Wayne, your gun is legend. Your carriage must say you know each dead end street, each blind alley hides a stranger truth than this your hand now tenders.
One, her green team jacket unable to conceal her belly's swell, stares at traffic with eyes like voided checks. She knows the other story: how back at the gym the boys brash and hard as maple boles are shooting baskets. She knows their loose half circle, how the balls arc and fall through the netted hole. How boys dream their tomorrows green and smooth as brook water. How they've trained to use the world to fierce advantage like a blind pick and roll. How each shot as it leaves their hands feels just right, like a perfect movie's only conceivable beginning.
By the Late John Brockman by John Brockman