Coats of Color

Color upon color. Color, upon color, upon color. Form, formless. Layers, coats. Warmth. It was Monet. Monet going blind. Monet seeing again. Monet nearing the end of his physical impression on Earth. And we are here to see it.

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The Sponge

Black. William Basinski plays in background, The Disintegration Loops, dlp 1.1. Decays for inordinate period, dulls into silence.

After some silence, greenish light swirls into a high-ceilinged common room. 2:45 am. (Male) is sunk into torn leather couch, facing chipped door opening onto long, composite-lined hall, peering blankly forward with one earphone in.

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Van Gogh, Self in Blue

Breathe Vincent. Breathe. The air is sparse. It's hard to get it through. I know. Take the twists. take the turns. Take the turmoil and channel it into the air. The air in arabesques all around you. And when you can, take it in. Breathe in in and become one with the clearness, one with the wind and the clouds.

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A Jazzy Jason Moran

I rushed into Bing concert hall slightly late, but still safely on time. I scurried to will call, picked up my ticket, and walked briskly to the entrance to section B. I was taken along the concourse to section D - where I actually was supposed to sit. All the way on the side. Damn.

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The Resurrection of Edvard Munch

The must-see exhibit debuting at SFMoMA ends in one week, on Monday, October 9. If you haven’t already, it is time to tap into your psychological yearning, leave your bed behind, and experience the palpable sublimity of Edvard Munch. Color, form, pattern, and paint. Love, death, anguish, and age. Edvard Munch bleeds brilliance, and you simply must be there to witness his resurrection.

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art.Angela BlackMunch
The Steps of Sun

August is the cruelest month. She wakes every morning, lays out her souvenirs on a small blanket and waits. The sun bakes her shoulders like bread. The stairs where she sits are brick and hard and cause her back to strain. The locals now call those stairs her own. Her fingers are bloodied, callused from the mornings before the sun rises when she crafts little crucifixes with wire. She tries to sell these every day, mostly to no avail. Her hands were once soft and gentle.

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Mark Rothko: Escape from a Wasteland

A looming, layered, orange cloud thunders above the deep blue abyss below. The large fields of color pulse with hovering energy. I stare. I am mesmerized by what once was a canvas of color, but is now a portal of spiritual bliss. As the artist would have wanted, the lighting is dim and I stand close in his honor. I am immersed in the layers of turpentine-paint, seemingly alive.

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