Reunion
©2003 Donald Neal McKay

Absolutely lovely

      spring day.

              Sun simmering

mother earth – par

      boiling soil – plants

              and blossoms rising,

surfacing, giving

      witness to nature’s

              expertise as culinary

genius of creation.

      Joy to be alive…

              as birds sing

cantabile…

                      washing

away winter’s

      dingy, gray gloom.

Museum draws – lures

      in springtime –

                              me

to visit three

      old friends.

They had to come

      to me… not I

              to them. For

from a different era,

      from a long ago

              place come

El Lissitzky, Kandinsky

      and

              Malevich.

Constructivists,

      Futurists…

              artists of the

highest order,

              out

of the creative, cultural

      disorder that

              Petrograd

served up to the

      world in revolutionary

              fury.

El Lissitzky, Kandinsky

      and Malevich –

              these names aren’t

on Western art tongues

      to share space with

              Pollock, deKooning

                      or Picasso.

Check your facts,

      look into your history

              books all –

place the dates –

      feel the times…

              see if El Lissitzky,

Kandinsky and

Malevich –

      three musketeers –

              weren’t full astride

long before the Cubists

      mounted their

              brushes!

El Lissitzky, my friend,

      teacher – innovator of

              the new graphics.

You make type and

      design walk across

              paper’s surface

in a manner that

      challenges eye and

              hand – violently fighting –

calling attention to –

                                      screaming

to reader: “Pick me up, clod!

      Hold me

              read me

                      see me

                              and

I’ll

shake the pudding

out

of

      your brain!”

El Lissitzky made words

                              work!

Graphics move in

      patterns of zig zag –

              meaning flows visually,

impression is violent –

      impact is profound.

                              Your

creative bolts

      always please,

              my friend.

Spring birds – song sparrows –

      their melodies – the sweet

      winds perfume the

museum with life’s new

                              song.

Kandinsky – volcano of genius –

                                      titan!

Wassily, what more

                      can be said,

as one gazes upon

                      those

      violent colors, the

              unchained lines –

shapes – the power

      of your canvases?

                      Some

regimented – most

      completely free…

                              unrestrained.

Your savage

                              strokes –

black line squiggling

                      here,

there – up,

              down –

in,

                                      out –

sprays of undreamt

      color combining with

              non sequitur.

                                      You

defined abstract

              expressionism,    you

      later giving

              up abstract

                      emotionalism.

Look at your

      work, look Kandinsky

              as it hangs there.

Frames

groan

just to contain the canvas –

      your thunderbolts

              want

                      to

                              rip

themselves

      from the

                      wall!

Spring birds – warblers and robins –

      hyacinth and daffodil – your

              lyrical color is greasepaint

for the museum’s

                              performance.

Shape upon shape –

      within shape, next

              to shape. That

laying on this, this

      over that. Triangle

              under bar, under

line – floating in space

      within canvas.

              Nothing – everything.

Flip-flop – up 

                      down,

      flip flop.

                      Sssstttuutterrerreddd

action, walking geometric

      shapes – white laying

              upon white.

Suprematist!

      Design – motion –

              energy –

at its purest,

      at its

                      cleanest.

This

      from the fountain-

              head

              of the

              Constructivists.

This

      from

              Malevich!

                              Malevich,

oh how

      I

      long for your

      reincarnation.

                              There

is none your

      like this day

              who dare to do    

                      what you

                                      did

and

pull it

                                      off!

You

breathed life

      into lifeless oils.

                              Your

canvas served

as a plane for

                      Pythagorean

theories set

      into awe-

              striking

                      motion.

                              Your

brush

      was  

              the

                      finger

of a

      mechanistic

                              god;

                              your

palette had the

      force of a

              division of 

                      artillery!

Spring birds – eagles and falcons –

      tulips and centurions – your

              majesty serves as a

                      crown for the museum

                                      royal.

Poor Malevich,

      poor Kandinsky,

              poor El Lissitzky,

three of the glowing

      lights of the people’s

                                      revolution –

only to be smothered

      in Mother Russia

              by the deprivation

of

free

              thought –

stolen

      from yourselves

              and other citizens

by the

              steel man.

Oh,

Malevich

              poor

                              Malevich –

Staling

made

Mayakovsky

      the revolution’s poet –

              why weren’t you

the revolution’s

              supreme

                              artist?

The

answer, drogi druzba is

      you had no

              Lili Brik.

Spring birds – vultures and crows –

      lily of the valley and… your

              song reminds us

                                      museums

can also be

      showcases of turmoil,

              and repression,

                      war

                              and

death.

      Hear

              the

                      Spring shower

lay its wet lace

      over head – the

              museum sings a soft

                      hollow melody – a

                              lullaby to

enrapture

      its enshrined treasures

              ‘till new day’s dawn.

This, I too, take

                      my

cue, bid

      farewell – bid

              God’s speed –

bid

      posterity’s

                      remembrance

to

      El Lissitzky,

              Kandinsky

                      and

                              Malevich.

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