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.
Mann im Anzug – dithyrambisch II (Man in Suit—Dithyrambic II), 1976. Distemper on canvas, 98 1/2 x 73 1/2 in. Private collection
THIS WEEK’S CHALLENGE:
What’s going on in Markus Lüpertz’s Mann im Anzug – dithyrambisch II (Man in Suit—Dithyrambic II)? Write a poem describing the story behind this work.
THIS WEEK’S PRIZE: A Dual/Family Membership to The Phillips Collection
TO ENTER: Leave your poem in the comments here, or share on social media with #LupertzPoem. We’ll select winners on Friday, July 21.
**UPDATE: There was a tie for the winning poem! They are:
Submitted by J.C. Thomas:
He wanted to feel blue
And hear the way he felt
Clenched fists and
Tighter neckties
Drowning out the sky
He imagined to be blue
He wanted to feel blue
And see the way he felt
An open book
Without words
He wanted to feel blue
Submitted by Karla Daly:
Save the Man for a Different Painting
It’s a fine suit, after all,
notched lapel, long vest,
Cerulean sheen.
The man, a mere suggestion,
hands of putty,
a swipe of a head.
A body, if there were one,
in motion.
So let us get back
to the impatient suit
not waiting for a man
to give it purpose.
A suit passing you
on the sidewalk,
a whiff of cedar and spice.
It whispers
hushed dining room,
side entrance,
embassy chamber with thick walls.
Save the man for a different painting.
Ask the tree trunk in mid-air,
indifferent to the ground.
Leaving his office
And his work-mind behind him
He makes his way home
Just like ‘manity’s erstwhile tools of torment
The phallic helmet and bayonet
Markus throws us another allegorical dithyramb
A headless blue suit, with dark thoughts overflowing
Poised, only slightly unsure, fist clenched
A modern tool of social machination
Fantastic words and expressions…truly amazing.
My suit surpassed me.
Betrayed and alone
I disappear.
And now,
The suit,
Is falling.
Three pockets on the outside for the world to see.
Many more on the inside with secrets untold.
and then he puts on a suit and tie
in an attempt not to stand out
just for a change though,
today he doesn’t wear his fake smile..
No matter how well dressed
this feeling of existential angst remains
Eyes, ears, head, brain all the same
Immersed in pain
Unable to breathe, eat, think
Soul hurts
Heart hurts
Head gone, but sadness still there
Why?
How can that be?
I’m living in a sea of despair
Is anyone there?
Learned my lesson
Let me go
Let me undress
Take off these clothes
Let me lie down
In the ground
six feet under.
How dry the dress code in DC
That of men, partic’larly.
Pocket logos — the sheep, the fox
For flair, the pair of hipster socks.
It may be Maison Kitsuné
And nothing of the wearer say.
So I sing praise of active guys
T-shirt! Bike gear! The lanky stride!
Fine suits, for sure, do have their place,
But one sees its cut and not his face.
Observations on Dress
Bespoke suit,
rich hued.
Dress shirt,
custom made.
Silk tie
precise knot.
Fine threads.
Sartorial splendor.
The wearer,
lost in shadow.
Vaguely defined.
Little more
than mannequin.
Non-entity.
Clothes do not
make the man.
#LupertzPoem
He wanted to feel blue
And hear the way he felt
Clenched fists and
Tighter neckties
Drowning out the sky
He imagined to be blue
He wanted to feel blue
And see the way he felt
An open book
Without words
He wanted to feel blue
Congratulations! You are the winner of a Dual/Family membership to The Phillips Collection. Please email contests@phillipscollection.org with “Poetry Challenge” in the subject line to claim your prize. Thank you for participating!
Amy Wike, The Phillips Collection
Save the Man for a Different Painting
It’s a fine suit, after all,
notched lapel, long vest,
Cerulean sheen.
The man, a mere suggestion,
hands of putty,
a swipe of a head.
A body, if there were one,
in motion.
So let us get back
to the impatient suit
not waiting for a man
to give it purpose.
A suit passing you
on the sidewalk,
a whiff of cedar and spice.
It whispers
hushed dining room,
side entrance,
embassy chamber with thick walls.
Save the man for a different painting.
Ask the tree trunk in mid-air,
indifferent to the ground.
Congratulations! You are the winner of a Dual/Family membership to The Phillips Collection. Please email contests@phillipscollection.org with “Poetry Challenge” in the subject line to claim your prize. Thank you for participating!
Amy Wike, The Phillips Collection
If life was ekphrastic
I’d frolic with Renoir bathers
Not some unknown suit
Descended from Ichabod Crane
Everyday on his way home
He takes a few moment to watch her go by
Everyday makes him hunger more
But each passing day makes him
Lose his courage
Until he can barely stand in fear of being rejected
Every day the old lay in the park watches the guy
Watching the girl
She hopes he will one day get the courage
She witnesses those moments when he seems to gather himself
But Alas,
He shrinks back in fear
She hopes for the day when he’ll come out of the shadows
Blue 3-piece,
Sharp as a tack,
It didn’t matter what he wore.
He always felt invisible.
Taken for granted.
Anonymous.
Long since being the new hire,
He hasn’t yet fit in.
Am I still here?
I think I see my ear.
My hands are clenched in thought.
My suit has a sheen of rot.
Am I here, or am I not?
How did I get in this position?
My virtue is sin by omission.
My style is decomposition.
A man.
No one knew where he came from.
No one knew why he didn’t have a head!
He seemed he was a detective.
With a trench coat.
And a background.
He had a story.
But what was it?
No one knew.
But someone wanted to know
His story.
Susie
West!
He is the walking blues
in a sharkskin suit
color of a Jamaican sky
gaudy for DC
but not for Memphis
he’s turned the corner of Beale
and turned to smoke
it pours from his perfectly
pressed collar.
Is the Man in the Blue Suit going to suffer from “Karoshi”? That is, from death by brain and heart ailment, due to overwork.
Or will it be “Karojishi”? That is, suicide by depression and other mental illness, due to overwork.
Or will he realize early enough that he has to choose between life and work?
In a culture in which one’s identity is defined by work, what is one’s identity if you choose life?
With flesh–
colors and contours, it’s warmth and give–
wiped away, Men of the city
are on the man displayed.
Tailor, Tailor! Divine in your radiant lines and layers,
the Painter bows low to you
while granting a small nod
to the architect.