for a critic
I don't mind the new
objectivity. But, my
god. Look at that.
Is this, Maître, Wright's unin-
terrupted, beautiful symphony
for canvases and viewing them,
or his ultimate, exuberant via-
duct of optimism, between the
chauffered matron, heading north,
and the new bourgeois, townward
bound: Henry Adams' Virgin and
his dynamo? As it mediates, it
seems unmistakeably a bridge, a
synapse, an armature of a spark.
Guggen-here, Guggen-there. Trea-
sure bracing gushes of its fount,
and repeat after it, New York.
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