clothespin

Untitled (Portrait of Ross in LA) 1991, Felix Gonzalez-Torrez
American, born Cuba 1957-1996

A pile of candy on the floor. A pile of "multicolored candies, individually wrapped in cellophane." A pile of candy in the corner: blue, green, orange, silver, red, pink. A pile diminishing.

A pile of candy, apparently a popular blogging subject. I saw it two days before Travis Smith did (or before he posted). It was smaller when I saw it. A pile of candy growing.

Text on the placard next to the piece: "This installation is an allegorical portrait of the artist's partner, Ross Laycock, who died of an AIDS-related illness in 1991. The 175 pounds of candy correspond to an ideal body weight. Please help yourself to one piece of candy. As the pile diminishes, candies will be replaced."

On the back of “Soap Bubble Set” (1948) by Joseph Cornell, the following text appears, typed on white paper, glued to the wooden box:

“upper level should contain large blue glass marble, — lower level, a wooden white ball and a small (3/4”) blue glass marble. if contents in glass become deranged they may be set in order by removing top of box”

And on another white square below that:
“Delicate sprig of coral in glass should be adjusted prominently in case of derangement.”

I’m intrigued by the notion that someone transporting or displaying this piece of art might have a hand in its re-creation. That the box and its contents live beyond the hands of their original arranger.

I always want to touch art. Don’t we all? It’s the imperative (miss, please step back from the painting) not to that makes us want to transgress. But, without touch, I don’t have a full appreciation of the piece, its texture and weight. How did the marble sit in his hand as he placed it on the glass shelf? Did the coral make an impression on the skin?

The word “delicate” in the second note thrills me. It is another sense of touch to know the words an artist used to describe his handiwork.

As a child I learned that every object has gravity, that is, that every object pulls objects towards itself in proportion to its size. The earth is the largest object, and therefore we are attracted to it, and we don't notice the slight pulls between each other. This is a child's knowledge filtered through adult language: I don't know how this is described scientifically.

I always imagined these tiny force fields around myself and other people, not in a visual sense but a kinetic sense. If I happened to brush the shoulder of a boy, well, it might have been gravity.

Cars and bicycles I also imagined having gravity. Mainly because as a car would pass me on my bike, I would unconsciously swerve, slightly but dangerously, towards it. This probably had something to do with air flow, but I attributed it to gravity. Or a self-destructive impulse.

As I walked out of the Art Institute of Chicago, buildings loomed terrifyingly close and heavy. I remembered looking up at them as a girl and seeing them sway. They could crush me. After months of small-town life, I was thrilled to be in it, to feel their pull, the imposition of their gravity on me.