"I owe the woman something, she kept me alive."-- Ed Harris
Disintegration. I have limited knowledge about abstract expressionism. One of my former Yahoo group members who understood what I was after, a disabled teacher from Britain, introduced me to the issue of de Kooning's work in conjunction with his end of life Alzheimer's, and then unsubscribed, in the story of my life. de Kooning lived a long time, and Pollock went in tyrannical fashion. I come on to piss and moan, nearly falling off the Jazzy getting off my deplorable bedding, transferred back to sunken lumpy mattress after rare accident, half-shit myself, got transfer right on the second round, logged on instead of cleaning what I can and going to get a little food, discover Anthony Riley has earned my envy, a rather selfish observation to offer, pondering these issues. I know why Ed Harris excels at portraiture, but remain diffident about Jackson Pollock's place among his contemporaries. Why couldn't he die alone? The film is a remarkable piece of biography, but the story is more or less sordid. What legacy does Namuth capture? Why did Lee Krasner sacrifice herself? What is it to break past Picasso? Why does the biography lead to cynicism even as the film itself is transcendent?
It leads me back to David Foster Wallace, my anger with him, because he had the skill to give me a place at the table, and doubtlessly would have understood me, and the bastard caved in, and I understand why, rejecting the medical model solace utilized by his wife, his father. What some established columnists felt about Phillip Seymour Hoffman's relapse and last trip on his dose over the rainbow, I felt about Wallace. I don't have to have known David to know we would have made sparks, engaging with each other, and yet I persist, obstinate blockhead, Harris' extraordinary abilities sneaking up on me. I should go, but let me let you know, I am giving my notice soon, told myself to give it a week or two, but I'll need a crash site, kabeesh?
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