PRINT January 1994

His Lash


Miró’s line was thick in the early years, especially if he was painting away from Paris. Shouldn’t be called simply line. Was itself a figure.

Its connection to the ground however was tangential. It sat on it, like a feather, albeit with resilience, more like a sleeping duck: the line of ink, crayon, pencil, physically different from its neighbor paint, web-footed, hovering on flow, like scum? Aragon said that it was as if he hadn’t really painted, as if the canvas below had once been the painting, making Miró’s mark an alien, late-coming something-else.1 True enough. And yet this line maintained a direction, never forgetting that it had fallen upon painting from a somewhere-else, like a hair.

Lyrical abrasion. The Spanish dance. The tangent moves off point and in so doing opens into space. The dancer pictures have no repeated, returning syncopation, make no noise, no click

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