Paris: from Litho Crayons to Onions

Sandy Kinnee
September 2019

Alberto’s During a Downpour

Alberto Giacometti’s studio is so small
A single bed with a raincoat
thrown across as a second blanket
a wicker chair trimmed in green rattan
an easel of the bulletproof kind with four casters
on the bottom a sturdy support to hold a canvas rigid
even during a windstorm or downpour such as this

And just as it seemed the rain was relenting
it gathered itself to pelt the studio door again

My stay thus extended
I sat and examined his studio further

There is a battleship gray wooden table
if I had a tape measure
I might be more accurate
But, guess one meter wide by two and a half
That is my guess.

Strewn across this tabletop are
a great quantity of long skinny brushes
more than 91 some never dipped in paint
Two big fat French house painters gob sticks
Rounds they are called, meant for trim
Assorted empty wine bottles
a pair of crock pitchers chuck filled
with worn brushes
of the previously mentioned count of 91 plus

Additionally, on this table is a wooden box
stuffed with Charbonell Lithographic crayons
enough for a decade of lithography
yet not a single slab of Bavarian limestone
upon which to scribble

Alberto must have planned to make many lithographs
One does not use litho crayons for sketching
Such crayons ate limited to black no other colors
The sole pigment Lampblack
Lampblack, beeswax, carnauba wax, and castile soap

Above the bed a yellow wind up alarm clock
The hands no longer keep time
No tick
No tock
Is the spring for the alarm wound taut?

Outside the door
more rain

Funny how clean
Alberto Giacometti’s studio floor
Not a spot of grey paint
No spilled plaster

Near the easel and the wicker chair
A stool
seat split as to be unusable
Save to hold an ashtray
with his final cigarette

His entire studio encased in plate glass
An aquarium
Without even a skinny fish

Voltaire’s First Name

Voltaire had but a single name
For his nom-de-plume

No first name would do nor
Should I say no last name either

I understand he used 178 or more
Nom-de-plumes

Some of which were simply
Reshuffling the letters a bit

Yet, to use all eight letters
Rearranged as a word

Voltaire unscrambled
Is: Violater

A brilliant mind tossed
Into the Bastille

Manet’s Knocker

Rue Bonaparte has been a primary walk
For me since the late 70s when
We frequently ate at the Café des Beaux Arts,
Directly across from the Ecole de Beaux Arts.

The Café was famous for the cheapest
Menu in Paris. We’d both order the salad
Piemontaise, in part to hear our high pitched
Waitress shout our order to the kitchen.

Whether heading to dine or not I walked
Along the narrow sidewalks of Bonaparte,
Smiling each time I passed the twin,
Solid brass, door knockers located at number 5.

Maybe take yet another photograph
Of the highly detailed, pair of serpents
Entwining a crenelated hoop. Ten years ago
I found that Atget had shot them∗ first.

The beauty of these impressive door knockers
Had always distracted me from noticing
The marble plaque next to the door.
Just last week I looked up and noticed the plaque

Another reason for liking these knockers.
Edward Manet lived his entire life at number 5 

My Neighbor Across the Street

Man Ray, across the street,
those leaves won’t
rake themselves

Man Ray smiles wide in the sky
his deal is:
he’d rake the leaves gladly

Just wake him
from his slumber
and hand him a broom

Until then, Man Ray
remains dead
as the unraked leavesIn front of his studio
at 2 bis rue Ferou 

 

Look at the Onions

Standing before still life with onions
I ask myself that cliche query
Not the one concerning
What does Cezanne want me to see?

Neither the question about
What is the viewer supposed
To take away from the experience of
These marks Paul Cezanne has layered
On this rectangle of canvas?

No, it is my own cliche inquiry
The one I ask myself as I stand
Before any canvas

I look for what I call a doorknob
A point where I can enter the painting
And look around.

To slip off my shoes
Then try his on

I see the onions

◊

Sandy Kinnee is yet another obscure artist who is an even more obscure writer/poet. Best known for his work with handmade paper since the early 1970s, he has for the past five years been exclusively painting fifteen foot canvases. He splits his time between Paris and Colorado. When in Colorado he paints. In Paris he writes because the apartment has no floor space for fifteen foot canvases.

sandykinnee.com


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