February 9th, 2008


On this day, in 1973, I took the elevated to Northwestern University, to see a certain film.

That's where I met my wife.  This poem is for her.

From the calendar, it appears
(and I don't suppose it lies)
that it's been -  unbelievably - 35 years
since I first laid eyes

on yours.

The years flash by
but love endures

not like a hard unchanging stone
more like a vine that's groped and grown
through cold and hot and dry and wet.

My darling, oh my dear,
my heart's not over you yet.

Overheard at the Gallery

I was standing in the Art Institute the other day.  Near where American Gothic hangs.  You've seen it:

A docent was lecturing a group of schoolchildren about the work.  She started off with, "This is a very sexist painting."

I had put this incident out of my mind, but today I was looking at Amazon reviews of Roger Kimball's book, The Rape of the Masters: How Political Correctness Sabotages Art.

The first reviewer said: "Kimball skewers the current trend of viewing all Western art (as well as Western literature) solely through the prism of sex, gender, and class. What results is a ludicrous but scary disfigurement of Western art."

Of course I flashed back to the docent
And her gender-colored prism.
One should be careful approaching
Art through the shades of an Ism.