This website has no other purpose than to display Chris Barclay's apparent lack of writing talent.

The Open Road by Charles Burchfield

The Open Road by Charles Burchfield

I'm working hard on my Sincerity article, but for now here is a lyric poem thing I wrote in English describing a painting that I tried to find intriguing.

The Open Road

Charles Burchfield — 1931

An open road, curving. Distant tree. The orange, fading sky darker moving right. Stars, patches, flicker like diamonds. Snowy, the open road, with edges jagged, leading to distant cities. And the clouds. Thin lines. 

Immediate direction curves towards the dark, black tree. Tacked like a spiders's web. The other leads to the cities, beam dimly from the houses. Yet there hides a third path. Not paved, the ridges curving in the snow. No road here, but the outlines of snow, and the shadows casting from the sunset.

It beautifully sparkles without vibrance or empty space, the night sky. Forbidding darkness buckles under some uninterested blue. The clouds ponderous, wet enough to define, not abstract. The place is sincere, ungodly.

Emotionally devoid, a glass fishbowl with craggy pebbles. How it reminds me of a girl. It is not a place, or an experience, and I understand it's trapped within the easel. It describes itself, with long roads stretching past.

No story here. Is the road, You cannot give intentions to art. Locks around air. The voyeur suffers.

Once, in person, I saw the painting in my city of Atlanta. Devious headphones under my jacket mumble "don't let them take my music away from you". Rabid dog tug-O-war, me and the ethereal experience. Zonked out, my jaw increasingly bothered.

Must have been beautiful, I think, the American landscapes. Industry and population had taken the United States, though no trace of satellite in the dark blue sky. The night goes on forever, reminding me of home. I guess, I could enjoy what, to me, it suggests about American landscapes.

I am aware, zapped by TV and media, and driven away. Experience. Actual, experience. I try to lean back through the image. It "doesn't jive with [my] own experience in a similar place." Joking prohibits me. I'm not able to experience a painting. 5 days later—I skipped to contemporary art. 


Here's a pretentious picture of me looking at a beautiful Ansel Adams photograph, snapped by some individual looking for pretentious pictures of people looking at things. 

Waves Crashing, and the Falling of Ants

Waves Crashing, and the Falling of Ants

Joji and the issue of Human Complexity

Joji and the issue of Human Complexity