![]() After Georgia wrote Alfred of her grief over the death of her mother he wrote back to her, “How you must suffer now. He was a lover of art and gave himself completely over to it, working himself penniless and into episodes of collapsing from exhaustion.įor the first several years, Alfred and Georgia’s relationship existed for the most part through the correspondence of letters, hardly knowing one another. It is said that he was a deeply devoted father. He also had a daughter with his wife, who was more or less exclusively reared by hired nannies, while Alfred focused on his career. He’d long been wed to the younger sister of a friend, in what was widely known as a loveless marriage. The two began corresponding about art via letters, which quickly escalated into flirtations and more personal exchanges.Īlfred was a married man when he met Georgia. From the very start, they recognized each other like Rembrandt strangers in a world of Monet. Alfred was immediately struck by the expressions of Georgia’s work and she by his profound reception of it. The two came together after some charcoal drawings Georgia had created were shared with Alfred by a friend of Georgia’s. Alfred was already a prominent, if not iconoclastic photographer and gallerist in New York, while Georgia was mostly unknown and only beginning to discover her style as an artist. Georgia O’Keefe and Alfred Stieglitz met in 1916 when Stieglitz was 52 and O’Keefe was 28. Those are the ones, I think, who were in love. One tries to capture it in a photo, to color it in a painting, and some get extremely close. Something so elusive can’t be bound by rules or form. To love someone all day-night long, to undress yourself slowly, so slowly it takes the rest of your life to lose and then to find each other, reassuring by touch and silence what no one else has ever known to exist except the two of you in that moment. What form then can love take? We’re creatures hungry to qualify, to say we know, and mean it. Then again, love is wont to induce euphoria and delusions of artistic grandeur. It can’t be form, but it’s all I can understand of love. ![]() My lover looks at me, and I think she must have said, “Yes, we are artists.” But I don’t remember it with her voice. In mornings when our doffed night clothes are Dali-ed around our lovers’ room, we will stop and wonder: how materials came to proceed and dictate the course of Art. ![]() I don’t understand how art is contained in a form -nothing I love has anything to do with shapes. If I were able to do so, the pieces would fit back together into the perfect jigsaw of an orange peel. ![]() I can’t decimate myself into ideal fragments. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |