From Art History:

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Jennifer Firestone



You are art, You are to be seen, I’m seeing you, We need to be seen, We need this now, The world doesn’t see, The one who sees themself solely doesn’t see themself, I hear what your words say to me, I absorb them like the images I’m seeing in my eyes, I’m awake and here, Ally, comrade, I’m here for you, Beleaguered with your sorrows, Trembling toward comprehension, I chose you and you chose me, As a chosen pair we enter space and spaces, We touch the ground and hear the leaves, We feel rain or wet wind, I am still me, You are you, And even with the mirror we can hold solitude and be loving and loved, Let’s not face this without feeling, In front of the steps your hair blew tenderly, Would you like tea, Are you moody, Are we revolutionary.

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Sometimes it’s difficult to be with a friend
and see art.
If they are dominating and tell you
what to see. Or if
they rush you.
Or they tell you about their
sexual experiences.
Sometimes the art says something
uncomfortable: there is violence,
rawness,
death. Sometimes I have to look at myself,
my reactions so closely it’s almost
unbearable. And then I have a witness,
my friend, and that can be hard too.

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We went to the Jewish Museum to see
Louise Bourgeois. We read her journals:
“I am the author of my own world with its internal
logic and with its value that no one
can deny.” 
Before I know anything, her sheer vision made me
ask, who were her parents?
Bourgeois’ parents owned a gallery of antique tapestries,
she at one time worked as a docent
at the Louvre and then opened up
her own gallery next door to her parents’ gallery.
Look at the reddish hell-mouth of the work,
“The Destruction of the Father.”
So many women-artists, women artist-poets
are having their day at eighty or ninety.
Who are you,
I keep asking them.
My friend and I each find frames
for photos.
we have a certain rhythm that is effortless
and know exactly when to leave.
We get
pedicures and
drink a beer spontaneously.
Art asks me
not to go back home just yet.
I must do something with my art feelings.
They are unwilling for me to move on.

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“The scent of the space,
that particular odor of white paint
undisturbed by furniture,
mixed with the scent of wood
through my mask
made me feel at home again,”
wrote my friend. We talk
about seeing art, we talk about
drinking orange wine, we talk
about oysters at 10:00 am, oh
my, what a life we could one
day live!

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Some people might find it excessive
this tendency to see art with my
friends. It only started during
Covid. Before there were no strings
attached. I might grab a tea or eat
a salad while catching up.
I try to be open: if you want to see
the Japanese Institute, fine.
I’d rather walk among art
than eat lunch.
I’m concerned you think I care
more about the art than you.
It’s not true. I like you very much
together.

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