Boxed

Tuesday, Jan. 21, 2003 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

In fairness to Morris Graves, I should give you his entire answer:

"The medium I've grown to like best is leisure and doing nothing. I'm in turmoil continuously with that side of my nature that requires leaving a record of my desire for order and for communication. The urge to communicate in a tangible medium is all tied up with urges of personality, ego, ambition, economy and name-fame--all, after all, synonymous. Why do I keep the paintings I make and send them on to the New York gallery except for these reasons? Otherwise I'd be free to let my life be a trackless medium."

Morris Graves was a friend of my grandparents and my Great-Aunt Rina, the unmarried maiden sister who lived here and helped out my gran'ma with the housekeeping and the kids. When the kids grew up, Aunt Rina decided to be an artist, so my gran'pappy re-built her little semi-detached bungalow into the studio the Fiend now occupies. Aunt Rina became a pretty good artist, mostly painted abstracts in acrylics, watercolor and guache, and she enjoyed a certain amount of regional fame towards the end of her life. I think I met Morris Graves once, as a child, if my memory of a thin dark old man, very tall, is real. I have one of his pieces, inherited from the elders, a small sculpture reminiscent of his Instruments for a New Navigation. It's nice, but I don't really love it. For 'bout two years now, I've been trying to talk this fellow I know (I prune his fig trees) into a trade for a Joseph Cornell box that he owns. Which is not going to happen, not likely, because his Joseph Cornell is ever so much more fabulous than my Morris Graves.

And anyway, the Fiend created my very own faux Joseph Cornell box for my birthday, which is much more ever so much more fabulous than the real thing, so I might as well sell the Graves sculpture and pay my hospital bills with the proceeds. Except I don't really own the gadget, not the whole thing. I only own one tenth of it, the other nine shares belong to the mater, my siblings, and my sisters' children. My siblings don't want to sell it, not yet. Morris Graves has been dead for only a couple of years, and they figure the longer he's dead, the more valuable his work will become. I can't argue with that. Looks like I might have to sell one of my cars, either the Chrysler or the Apache. I have insurance, but I have to pay a $5,000 deductible before the insurance company pays for 80% of my medical expenses. After I shell out another $5,000, they'll cover everything. At least, I think that's how it works. And that doesn't include dental, of course. Which sucks, but as a twenty-something self-employed white male with a prison record, it's the best I can do. So... the money for the x-rays, the cat-scan, the EEG, the doctor, the neurologist, various sundries and the night at the opera, is coming outa my pocket. Do you remember when I was bragging about my merry sense of financial well-being at Christmas? The gods must have been listening, and perpetually jealous of mortal happiness, they sent one of their minions to kick the ladder out from under me.

~

The Fiend's faux Cornell box was inspired by An Analemma, Shewing by Inspection the Time of Sun Rising and Sun Setting, the Length of Days and Nights and L'Egypte de Mlle Cleo de Merode cours elementaire d'histoire naturelle. I couldn't find an online picture of the Analemma, but it looks something like this and this.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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