I Yield

I’m giving up on David Hockney. I think I’m supposed to like him. Peut-être je ne comprends pas. Je m’en fous. I can tell you the cultural significance of his work. It just doesn’t speak to me. I’ve given him more than his due. I attended a “Met after Dark” event and today circled again through the exhibit. I’m not digging it. I look at his paintings and think what would make it more interesting to me. I think as I stand in front of “Looking at Pictures on a Screen” and think “maybe if it was a picture of Dominick Dunne, or maybe more apropos of DH someone like Truman Capote, then maybe I would at least enjoy the capture of a moment-in-zeitgeist.” But it isn’t, and so I don’t. I have stopped trying to like cauliflower and its evil modern collaborator kale, and have also surrendered my pursuit of the wildly talented Rachmaninoff (I listen to Joplin and want to sit down and play, I listen to Sergei and I just think he is making his work complex to show off, not to reveal anything).