I am reminded by Alsatian poet Bertrand Caillebotte's sonnet, “Douze Façons Pour Se Pencher,” that rage and envy are “…doublé par la dette et désespère.”

The falling out between Schoffman and I was caused by a remarkably petty affair. We were at the Beaubourg, admiring “Violin et Verre,” the 1913 still life of Juan Gris when I made the innocent observation that the painting reminded me of David’s picture “The Loom of Minerva.” Well, if you are at all acquainted with David and his pathological “anxiety of influence,” you can probably figure out what happened next.

With blood rushing toward his shiny grey dome and his face contorted into a scuffling beak he looked at me with a contempt I had never imagined him capable of. “Malaspina, you are a scab, you are stagnant water, you repel me,” and with that he turned on his heel and marched out of the museum.

Two frosty years passed without as much as a word until last month’s invitation to exhibit with him in Los Angeles. Well, I have wearied of the corruption of our unfortunate acrimony. David is, quite frankly, a remarkable painter. I am honored to exhibit with him at DCA Fine Art and I look forward to it.

I hope he has lost his preoccupation with Gris.

 

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Cushioned by idle comforts, softened by southern Californian lassitude, David Schoffman’s calcified intellect has turned malignant. What madness! Tempted by the faint purrs of public acclaim, (such an unlawful prize!), Schoffman has tricked me, (yes, tricked me!) into participating in an exhibition with him and Micah Carpentier.

If rousing the dead were not crime enough, he acts as if our hideous blood feud was but a lover’s spat. Has that drunken spider gone insane!? Schoffman, living as he does in that ivy-mantled tower of international renown, thinks time has healed the deeper vitals of my rage!

It has not!

I have, however agreed to this exhibition, in no small measure due to the infinite charms of Delia Cabral, owner and director of DCA Fine Art in Santa Monica, California. (If Brecht survived those miserable palm trees, so can I).

Cabral (which in Aramaic means “sternest minds amaze”) is a remarkable impresario who combines a flawless eye with a deep commitment to tasteful elegance. She does this with the dreamful ease of bladed grass. She is patient with my worthless rages, imperturbable toward my luxuriant complaints.

The exhibition will take place in August. I may or may not come to the opening. I will not show my finest work. I will not be vengeful nor will I be forgiving.

I am reminded by Alsatian poet Bertrand Caillebotte's sonnet, “Douze Façons Pour Se Pencher,” that rage and envy are “…doublé par la dette et désespère.”

The falling out between Schoffman and I was caused by a remarkably petty affair. We were at the Beaubourg, admiring “Violin et Verre,” the 1913 still life of Juan Gris when I made the innocent observation that the painting reminded me of David’s picture “The Loom of Minerva.” Well, if you are at all acquainted with David and his pathological “anxiety of influence,” you can probably figure out what happened next.

With blood rushing toward his shiny grey dome and his face contorted into a scuffling beak he looked at me with a contempt I had never imagined him capable of. “Malaspina, you are a scab, you are stagnant water, you repel me,” and with that he turned on his heel and marched out of the museum.

Two frosty years passed without as much as a word until last month’s invitation to exhibit with him in Los Angeles. Well, I have wearied of the corruption of our unfortunate acrimony. David is, quite frankly, a remarkable painter. I am honored to exhibit with him at DCA Fine Art and I look forward to it.

I hope he has lost his preoccupation with Gris.

 

-------------------------------

 

Cushioned by idle comforts, softened by southern Californian lassitude, David Schoffman’s calcified intellect has turned malignant. What madness! Tempted by the faint purrs of public acclaim, (such an unlawful prize!), Schoffman has tricked me, (yes, tricked me!) into participating in an exhibition with him and Micah Carpentier.

If rousing the dead were not crime enough, he acts as if our hideous blood feud was but a lover’s spat. Has that drunken spider gone insane!? Schoffman, living as he does in that ivy-mantled tower of international renown, thinks time has healed the deeper vitals of my rage!

It has not!

I have, however agreed to this exhibition, in no small measure due to the infinite charms of Delia Cabral, owner and director of DCA Fine Art in Santa Monica, California. (If Brecht survived those miserable palm trees, so can I).

Cabral (which in Aramaic means “sternest minds amaze”) is a remarkable impresario who combines a flawless eye with a deep commitment to tasteful elegance. She does this with the dreamful ease of bladed grass. She is patient with my worthless rages, imperturbable toward my luxuriant complaints.

The exhibition will take place in August. I may or may not come to the opening. I will not show my finest work. I will not be vengeful nor will I be forgiving.