The Stigmatization of St. Francis, Albrecht Altdorfer
The process of moving forces a confrontation with the burden of accumulation. Like the mealy bugs that droop the leaves of my schefflera arboricola, leftovers--two jars of caraway seed, a cerulean paisley suitcase torn and frayed, maps collected from European and American travels--wilt me.
Packing and unpacking the years of residue momentarily clarifies the gasp of eye watered joy expressed at thrush rattled branches by Francis in Rossellini's Francesco, Giullare di Dio.
At a time when we try to smother our collective malaise with the commodified sparkle of a 40 inch plasma screen or BMW Z4, this bliss of dispossesion strikes the viewer as utterly bizarre.
To link spiritual beauty with being thrown to wallow in mud from the pouring rain after begging for alms so disturbs popular perversions of piety--from the Trinity Broadcasting Network's claim that gold plated limousines reveal God's blessing to the bunksters of "The Secret" who tell us thinking we own a Lexus RX 350 is owning it--signs of destitution require relentless extirpation.
Thus, last Sunday afternoon when four police officers grabbed a homeless woman, kicked her up and down like a Bozo Bop Bag, and roped her four limbs as if she were a rodeo calf, they merely acted to "serve and protect": serve as surrogate thugs and protect our hands from the slightest smudge of guilt for the daily butchery on the streets.
Pass that 24 year old bottle of Bordeaux to wash down 100 pounds of seasoned ground flesh: the 6000 dollar combo meal, exclusively in Gladys Park.
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