1000 Words: de Kooning's "Gotham News"

Prose to the Painting with a New York State of Mind

Willem de Kooning’s “Gotham News”

Was it not splendid, Bill? The whole of it? Was every moment, ghastly and frigid, tumultuous and tenuous, exploding and exciting–was it not all splendid, Bill?

From the wet, littered mouth of Rotterdam and unto the Shelley! You, the little Dutch boy, a stowaway, coming to greet America with almost nothing! Those blonde women, those long-legged tennis players, that neon insignia, those limitless dashing, fluttering lights, and those speeding, shiny automobiles are dancing, congregating in your head! They all form a strike, a one-time utterance, a type of flash. These visions, as we may call them, are indescribable to the soul that reaches out to be touched at the inner workings of the spirit–not mere flesh! They are impressions.

They impregnate the mind, sign their signature on the soul with flame, bring out all insecurities, all self-doubt and blast them away with sheer audacity. Nothing can harm you now! All your doubts and fears have come and past, you’ve got nothing to worry for!

I know it. This is what New York does. This our Gotham.

I have to say, some of the warmest times were when it was cold as hell. Snowing, blizzarding in fact. And just a few days in from the first falling, the immaculate plane, which is so bright it lights up the streets with moonlight, sparkling and twinkling, yes, after the first few days it turns to sludge. But one must even greet the sludge as a friend in New York! You ought to know!

Yes, it was in those days where the paint would take forever to dry. There is little to be done but stare. The parts you want dry are wet and the parts you want wet are dry. There is always the paper. The newsprint is your retardant, the cool air your accelerant. And there is little work to be done. So, getting your overcoat, your brown crushed fedora, throwing on a scarf and piercing the streets with icy courage, perhaps, it is a film you require. All is left in a working state. The cigarette is still fuming a narrow strip of smoke, the brushes lay where dropped. The kitchen sink is leaking. The record player Is spinning! But never mind, if you are to leave, you must leave now! The city waits for no man…

A trip to the cinema! Is this not the future? To forget about things for a while?  One cannot be too invested in their own pitiful problems. One can worry about fictitious dilemmas in solitude, in the quiet, in the dark! You know, I believe Bleeker Street may have something in store tonight. Or if you are up for it, midtown for something a bit more saccharine. And after we huddle out of the theatre, cupping our hands around our mouths to save for ourselves a brief, warm exhalation!–Off to the diner! Where the most fantastic meal on earth is served up righteously, humbly–the famed American cheeseburger, fries and a black coffee, of course! Thirty cents for all this! It’s not too bad! It is everything you need tonight. It replenishes the soul. It makes you feel less like an orphaned guest in the boroughs. That you are not a visitor, but that you are home. It is what everyone craves. To feel as right with their destiny, their past, their present as they can. Many have a word for this–it is pronounced “cheeseburger”.

Oh, how I have replicated this exact scenario in my minds eye as well as in reality. Where New York was a thronging hectic hurl into a futuristic landscape of the unknown. Where every technological advancement would be dreamed in sleep, sketched in the daylight, and put to physical form soon thereafter. But it was not all futuristic. There was an ancient quality to everything, surely. As if New York had risen in some Bronze Age-like period, become flushed with icy waters, flooded and sank, disappeared from the surface, and, in hundreds of years, had risen again. Every footstep to be retraced, every spirit another rehearsal for those phantomic citizens who came before. On steamships and cargo vessels as far as Rotterdam, as far as Argentina, as far as Armenia–far as China and Japan!

And, there is Gorky! Your imaginary brother! Whose paintings you could hardly lift! Whose paintings you could hardly describe. Within them, there exists the possibilities of all movements. Tangible, intangible, mythic, futuristic, ancient, logical, moral, indecisive.

De Kooning! How I and others have traced your hand. You wristy bastard! With the flick of the angular brush, you carve your movements! And with your terrifying journey, your valiant trip across the Atlantic, now, does not America have a Dutch Master for its own?

It matters none what others see or think or feel. The painting is its own proof! Of the late night, of the smog filled city streets, of the staccato, bombastic hits of the snare and bass drum! Of the hot trumpets blaring their abstract, metallic jazz! Of the early mornings, still, but caffeinated, waiting solemnly, like a hunter, for your next strike. For your next affirmation!

This is Gotham. Brick by brick and stroke by stroke, it is rising. Taller and wider than one can imagine! 1955! What can we say of `56, `57? You would be a fool to lay a wager! A fool to place a bet. One can only discover the here and the now. One must be present. So, the misty, murky ports of Rotterdam are indeed long behind you. And the future comes when it comes and it will bring with it what it will. But now–there is painting to tend to. To pack whatever violence, whatever peace, whatever doubt, whatever truth, whatever heartbreak, whatever love–to pack it in the swift flick of the wrist. To affirm your current state of affairs. Whatever ills may come to you, this moment, blossomed and fragmented, shattered and curved, is yours and yours alone.

With Love to you, Bill!

JSV
2024

If you enjoy this series, 1000 Words: Ekphratic Writing, please find my other pieces in this series, like this one: