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A
LESSON IN ART HISTORY
Sabasa
Garcia stood in the lone window
of
a castle tower in Catalunia or Castile;
her
Etruscan lips were the center of the frame.
She
didn't paint them herself, it was Goya.
Sometime
later the French were defeated.
A
million muskets were stacked like
shocks
of wheat in dreary cells
that
served as well
for
the aging of red vine.
And
everything continued in a different key.
A
new generation grew up to laugh at David,
whose
fine classical sentiments
foundered
in a lake of blood.
A
willful and destructive child was born:
the
Future.
This
world of walls, imaginary lines,
collages
made maps of war
allowed
sufficient light at least to
illuminate
a few dreams: Renoir, Van Gogh.
Then
the future came of age, movies, TV
and
all that hubbub, all that paint alone could
not
produce. Sabasa Garcia still sat in her tower,
waiting
for another Goya, or Chirico.
And
the dreams persisted, the boating
parties
on Seine, a touch of sun,
whatever
we could glimpse in the
midst
of tragedy: ore stubborn refusal
to
make the dreams come true.
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