I hung a picture-frame on the wall
and called it art!
How simple, thought I, to show the wall.
The gold-paint balse'
with turbulent fleur-de-lis
built, perhaps, to hold a proud portrait
or boast some forgotten victory.
And left satisfied, I, in my genius impulse.
But came I back two weeks past,
and saw the wall anew.
That thing so ignored and abused,
on display here;
brought to the foreground.
Nails pounded through its skin.
Then plastered and painted again.
I felt ashamed
to treat my protector so callous.
My most familiar.
Friends of mine came and said
'Oh, what a glorious frame,
that it needs no picture! '
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
INTERESTING IRONY - FROM THE TIME YOU PUT THE FRAME ON THE WALL YOU WERE AWARE OF THE WALL, WHILE YOUR GUESTS ONLY SAW THE FRAME. You could say they saw the materialism of the art production, you were looking at the dynamic, changing element of the wall and saw CHANGE, METAMORPHOSIS. There is a close musical analogy to this, namely, John Cage's early piano work which is titled by its duration (I don't remember it exactly) like - 2: 11 This was premiered at an open air concert in the 1960s. The pianist lifted the piano cover and sat motionless for 2 minutes 11 seconds, then shut the lid. People jeered. They didn't realize the music was in the environment around them - in the way you found the art in the wall in front of you.