In addition to being an artist, Markus Lüpertz was a poet. Throughout the exhibition, share your Lüpertz-inspired poems with us to win prizes. Every other week, we’ll issue a new poetry challenge based on images or themes in the exhibition for fresh inspiration and chances to win.
(left) Stil: Eins-Zehn VII – große Form mit Linie 2 (Style: One-Ten VII—Large Shape with Line 2), 1977. Oil and distemper on canvas, 63 3/4 x 51 1/4 in. Private collection (right) Arkadien – Der hohe Berg (Arcadia—The High Mountain), 2013. Mixed media on canvas, 51 1/4 x 63 3/4 in. Private collection
THIS WEEK’S CHALLENGE:
These paintings, both by Lüpertz, were created 36 years apart (1977 and 2013, respectively). Imagine the two works are having a conversation. What might they say? Describe in a short poem.
THIS WEEK’S PRIZE: Two tickets to Phillips after 5: Punk Out on July 6, 2017.
TO ENTER: Leave your poem in the comments here, or share on social media with #LupertzPoem. We’ll select winners on Friday, June 23.
Large shape and high mountain, in conversation
1. From the simplest form
The element, the essence,
All else derives.
Molecules coalesce into bright array; red cells
Contained, not bleeding, tight perimeter,
Lines like tentacles reach to water and sky.
2. As humanity struggles in its base nature,
Mountains, beasts and trees remain.
Barren as an empty shell or war helmet
Fought and defeated, left naked in the elements,
Facing the river of death, nothing to pay the ferryman
Lost souls wait in despair, no joy in the battle.
Janet Smereck
Janet,
Congratulations! You’re the winner of two tickets to the sold out Phillips after 5 on July 6. To redeem, please email contests@phillipscollection.org with “Poetry Challenge” in the subject line. Thanks so much for participating!
Amy
Lupertz goes to Washington
—–God is dead and drink wine sayeth Nietzsche
Guten tag, my sir. I’m pleased to meetcha
—–Erm. Pardon my attempt at dithyramb
I’ll grant your wish with a musical jam
—–Sehr erfreut. Truly. Though who’s the younger?
Time is a construct from Kant to Unger
—–Ah, once more cast from contemporaries
I see you take slight at my contraries
—–With your blocks and cuts, you do gibe at me
Natch. Be what you want and not what you be
—–I did hone my edge, a jazz man, to wit
It’s that Nazi stuff man, try to cool it
—–My affect drifts upon a Yank’s swooning
Bite the apple, like Kline and de Kooning
—–Onto Washington, with its Xeroxed dome
Stay for a summer’s whim and call this home
—–So here we are, ruined Greece at the helm
West Hollywood’s too far, would underwhelm
—–Refugees flock from Mideast, Afrika
Lain at the rust-foot of Amerika
The Artist Talks to Himself
It used to be so simple. Be sharp.
Draw your lines. Wheel around
that corner. Flatten it. What’s to hide?
Now everything breathes, sings, bleeds
one into another. We venture out, conceal
and reveal, risk all on a gesture.
The wolf lurks.
Lupertz goes to Washington
—God is dead and drink wine sayeth Nietzsche
Guten tag, my sir. I’m pleased to meetcha
—Erm. Pardon my attempt at dithyramb
I’ll grant your wish with a musical jam
—Sehr erfreut. Truly. Though who’s the younger?
Time is a construct from Kant to Unger
—Ah, once more cast from contemporaries
I see you take slight by my contraries
—With your blocks and cuts, you do gibe at me
Natch. Be what you want and not what you be
—I did hone my edge, a jazz man, to wit
It’s that Nazi stuff man. Try to cool it
—My affect drifts upon a Yank’s swooning
Bite the apple, like Kline and de Kooning
—Onto Washington, with its Xeroxed dome
Stay for a summer’s whim and call this home
—So here we are, ruined Greece at the helm
West Hollywood’s too far, would underwhelm
—Refugees flock from Mideast, Afrika,
Lain at the rust-foot of Amerika
Though I have reins
They cannot restrain me
I storm and plummet
My sharp edges crack and crush
No virile storm can cancel
Our gentle play
We caper and dance
We twist and flow
Into one another
call it hubris
a young man’s reductionist x-rayed vision
the world crafted and delineated
in neatly crated emotion — boldly
contained and compartmentalized
with crayola-spawned palette
even the insouciant swirly line’s
story has a beginning and and an end
the conceit of outlined borders
compact orderly
and ordered
angles crisp edged and sharp not
like a stiletto but more the
product of a starched collar’s point
on a cotton shirt of a
saturday night
the middle painting that got away
would have shown her –
a bottecelli on the half shell
steam-peeling the papered walls of
naiveté with the moisture
of her thighs and how
his vision starts to
scrap and burn when venus
sails off for fairer waters followed
by a series of sucker punches to
the cardiac sac—walls sag-
angles collapse -each disappointment
a wrecking ball to the fortification-
a cigarette lighter held
long and steady liquefies metal linings
the armored images no foil to
the inhalation of turpentine tinged perfume
now his canvas a retreat
back to the “quelle”- the source of life..a
steer stares across water, his pointy
horns a last vestige of youth’s vigor
the male flesh painted over the back of
a grecian ideal —the helmet an illusionary
story of protection, against the onslaught
of the messy truth of life gifts and retrievals-
one with stiff backed bravery and one with a
supplicant’s desperate submission to gravity-
armaments down, down in retreat like defeated
prey, the search for the meaning of life is
now reduced to the
mystery of it’s survival
I am the universe. Exploding. Big bangle.
Creating human form.
Not to be sacrificed to expediency, but to be appreciated for the high form of art it is.