Live-blogging the Mets, Volume 2
As if!
Actually, I watched the Mets/Yankees game last night virtually live. Started on time, but then paused and painted during the commercials. Eventually I got far enough ahead to control my own destiny.
Fun game. Less fun at the end. But that's not what I'm here to talk about.
I'm here to talk about Derek Jeter ... and the aging of same.
Me? I'm a huge Derek Jeter fan, so don't take what I'm about to say the wrong way. But watching him last night made me wonder if we weren't watching Father Time slide the rug out from under the guy. Sure it's just one game, but he looked like hell.
We'll get to this in a minute, but this is a de Kooning ribbon painting from the very end of his life.
I love that little hint of a breast in the white panel on the right side. Good to know the old bird was still thinking about women.
Back to Jeter. He's 36 years old, just for the record. Which is old for a shortstop, let me tell you. And watching the Mets' ground balls carom off the tip of his glove over and over again last night reminded me of watching Kareem Abdul Jabbar's final season. It was as if he was aging right in front of our eyes ... and it was a painful thing to see, dear reader.
There's a part of me that's thinking all this talk about a contract extension for the guy may be a bit premature.
Anyway, when de Kooning was dying of Alzheimer's Disease, there was a lot of talk about how his late work was somehow invalid (as in NOT valid). I always thought this was a bunch of guff.
Here's another late-stage work:
And here's one of the de Kooning Motherships (Woman V, it's called--the kind of stuff he was painting when he was dating the then-deceased Jackson Pollock's former girlfriend, Ruth Kligman) :
All of which brings me to the story about how I almost burned up my kitchen the other day, but I'm not really in the mood to talk about it right now, other than to say that the beauty of being a painter is that the whole thing is staring right at you. It's not like being, say, a novelist. Where you have to hold plot strands in your head and remember what you wrote in Chapter Four as you craft Chapter Eleven.
No, dear reader. It's all right in front of you.
Isn't it.
Actually, I watched the Mets/Yankees game last night virtually live. Started on time, but then paused and painted during the commercials. Eventually I got far enough ahead to control my own destiny.
Fun game. Less fun at the end. But that's not what I'm here to talk about.
I'm here to talk about Derek Jeter ... and the aging of same.
Me? I'm a huge Derek Jeter fan, so don't take what I'm about to say the wrong way. But watching him last night made me wonder if we weren't watching Father Time slide the rug out from under the guy. Sure it's just one game, but he looked like hell.
We'll get to this in a minute, but this is a de Kooning ribbon painting from the very end of his life.
I love that little hint of a breast in the white panel on the right side. Good to know the old bird was still thinking about women.
Back to Jeter. He's 36 years old, just for the record. Which is old for a shortstop, let me tell you. And watching the Mets' ground balls carom off the tip of his glove over and over again last night reminded me of watching Kareem Abdul Jabbar's final season. It was as if he was aging right in front of our eyes ... and it was a painful thing to see, dear reader.
There's a part of me that's thinking all this talk about a contract extension for the guy may be a bit premature.
Anyway, when de Kooning was dying of Alzheimer's Disease, there was a lot of talk about how his late work was somehow invalid (as in NOT valid). I always thought this was a bunch of guff.
Here's another late-stage work:
And here's one of the de Kooning Motherships (Woman V, it's called--the kind of stuff he was painting when he was dating the then-deceased Jackson Pollock's former girlfriend, Ruth Kligman) :
All of which brings me to the story about how I almost burned up my kitchen the other day, but I'm not really in the mood to talk about it right now, other than to say that the beauty of being a painter is that the whole thing is staring right at you. It's not like being, say, a novelist. Where you have to hold plot strands in your head and remember what you wrote in Chapter Four as you craft Chapter Eleven.
No, dear reader. It's all right in front of you.
Isn't it.
posted by Geoffrey at 7:51 AM
1 Comments:
Odd coincidence of the day: I had your post open in one tab and an interview with NYC writer Emily Gould in another, and I read this:
Gould, who hosts the culinary web show "Cooking the Books" on Vimeo, is also hunting "a stainless steel saucepan--kind of a boring item, but I recently scorched my old one by boiling water and then forgetting about it and falling asleep. I'm lucky I didn't burn my house down."
Huffington Post link
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