WinglessAlthough my stealthy grace brings me to and fro,More Like This
All I wish is to fly with the wind, wherever she may blow.
To catch air and never fall,
No matter if my wings are to be small.
Although my stance is rather strong,
On the ground I stay life long.
My fur is striking orange and black,
But still, I despise my wingless slack.
Although most creatures revere my power,
In my shadow, they always cower.
No one ever tries to touch
my lonesome heart. So to my power, I clutch.
The bird is free to wander where her heart lies,
Her careless flight brings tears to my eyes.
I wish to fly among them! Oh, I wish I could.
But here I lay, tigress, with a hopeless godhood.
Art in Contemplation of Its Own BecomingDuchamp finds a discarded urinal. He alters it (by signing a name to it not even his own, but obviously “the artist’s”) and names it “The Fountain”. The most mundane, even off-putting, of objects is transformed by Duchamp into art. He submits it for exhibition and it is rejected. You might say the judges “pissed on” his idea. But the idea was born and persisted. Duchamp insisted the object was art because he as an artist presented it as such. “Conceptual Art” was born.More Like This
Wed Dec 7, 2011, 7:59 PM
Duchamp finds a discarded urinal. He alters it (by signing a name to it not even his own, but obviously