Andy Warhol, Hand and Flowers, 1957
I have been having difficulty getting into the volume and gristle of my feelings. I’m reminded of when I was told to stick my hand into mysterious, hidden substances in elementary school and was asked to identify the material. All I could find were descriptors and analogies, but I couldn’t figure out what the things were. They were soft, warm, light or heavy, they felt like what a cloud must feel like, or grainy and soothing like sand.
The emergence of postmodern surface always appealed to me, and made me feel sad too. The flattened picture was an impenetrable surface protecting some interior marsh, a vulnerability that couldn’t be taken up by capital or misinterpreted in such a painful and disappointing way. I see flattened out soup cans, made with so little of the artist’s laboring, individual body, all of that taken out by the silk screen, and I think of being in a relation where one feels less and less comfortable disclosing, lest every disclosure be made into one’s ability or inability to be useful.