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| Kristians Tonny After van Eyck (Gertrude Stein) ca. 1930-36 tempera on masonite Wadsworth Atheneum, Hartford, Connecticut |
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| Julian Trevelyan Woman in a Courtyard 1933 oil paint and enamel paint on canvas Tate Gallery |
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| Harry Epworth Allen Portrait of a Lady 1936 tempera on panel The Hepworth, Wakefield |
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| John Downton Profile of a Woman ca. 1933 tempera on panel University of Hull Art Collection |
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| Thomas Hart Benton Susanna and the Elders 1938 oil paint and tempera on canvas, mounted on panel Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco |
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| Charles Sheeler View of New York 1931 oil on canvas Museum of Fine Arts, Boston |
The Chime
When death stands in your doorway, you must show no weakness. If he points at his watch, answer "in five minutes." If he insists, murmur "just a minute." When he bridles, whisper "half a minute," "a second," "half a sec," "one moment."
You mustn't look him in the eye. But don't avert your gaze. Glance decisively at the bridge of the nose or the moist place right below the lips.
If he unfolds a map, please don't express a preference for the seashore or the mountains. Betray no longing or anxiety. You might tap the margin nonchalantly, if there is a margin.
There's an old superstition that death is a healer, he brings peace, escape from corruption. On the contrary: he is not a person, an animal, an insect, not even a pebble. Not even a name. Not an event. Not a whiff of night air.
So why, ask yourself, does he fidget there, with that peevish "can't we meet each other halfway" expression, in those absurd Goodwill clothes, baggy corduroy suit, pants and jacket the same color but different wales, so often folded the seams are white as chalk lines, fat two-tone white-and-beige golf shoes with cleats, nylon argyle socks, like someone's idea of an encyclopedia salesman from the nineteen thirties?
And why is the street behind him so fascinating, empty as a stage set, a few vans double-parked, a cat hiding under one, sometimes the flicker of the tip of a tail, sometimes the glint of the eye itself, voracious, ecstatic?
– D. Nurske, published in Poetry (June 2016)
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| Joan Miró Personage, Animals, Mountains 1935 tempera on paper Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Pablo Picasso The Painter 1934 oil on canvas Wadsworth Atheneum, Hartford, Connecticut |
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| David Park Allegory of Music: The Corybantes 1936 tempera on gesso on plywood Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco |
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| Pavel Tchelitchew Study for the Funeral in Errante 1935 gouache on paper Wadsworth Atheneum, Hartford, Connecticut |
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| Kurt Schwitters Opened by Customs 1937-38 painted-paper and printed-paper collage Tate Gallery |
Pantoum of the Great Depression
Our lives avoided tragedy
Simply by going on and on,
Without end and with little apparent meaning.
Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes.
Simply by going on and on
We managed. No need for the heroic.
Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes.
I don't remember all the particulars.
We managed. No need for the heroic.
There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows.
I don't remember all the particulars.
Across the fence, the neighbors were our chorus.
There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows.
Thank god no one said anything in verse.
The neighbors were our only chorus.
And if we suffered we kept quiet about it.
At no time did anyone say anything in verse.
It was the ordinary pities and fears consumed us,
And if we suffered we kept quiet about it.
No audience would ever know our story.
It was the ordinary pities and fears consumed us.
We gathered on porches; the moon rose; we were poor.
What audience would ever know our story?
Beyond our windows shone the actual world.
We gathered on porches; the moon rose; we were poor.
And time went by, drawn by slow horses.
Somewhere beyond our windows shone the world.
The Great Depression had entered our souls like fog.
And time went by, drawn by slow horses.
We did not ourselves know what the end was.
The Great Depression had entered our souls like fog.
We had our flaws, perhaps a few private virtues.
But we did not ourselves know what the end was.
People like us simply go on.
We have our flaws, perhaps a few private virtues,
But it is by blind chance only that we escape tragedy.
And there is no plot in that; it is devoid of poetry.
– Donald Justice (1925-2004)
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| Reginald Marsh Wooden Horses 1936 tempera on board Wadsworth Atheneum, Hartford, Connecticut |
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| Reginald Marsh Tattoo and Haircut 1932 tempera on masonite Art Institute of Chicago |
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| John Charles Haley Mining the Gold Stope (Tucson, Arizona) 1936-37 tempera on hardboard Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco |