grace - by Ava - bookbear express

The first line of Wayne Koestenbaum’s essay on James Schuyler: “Why write art criticism at all? For love. Also, sometimes, for money.” A couple paragraphs later: “In a review of Fairfield Porter’s paintings, Schuyler states what might be taken as his own credo: “Look now. It will never be more fascinating.” I’m looking now, and I’ve never been more fascinated, though I’ve never been more scared. In times of uncertainty, I turn towards language seeking pleasure and relief; I text you about nothing, because the something is already happening; I rearrange my dog’s limbs as he relaxes on his bed, marveling at the whites of his eyes, the shearling texture of his fur, the way he watches me at my lowest moments, understanding without comprehending. Discernment without judgment is the phrase on my mind. Another way of saying this might be grace. The idea of love as unretractable and more than that—unchangeable—is not unfamiliar to me, but lately I’ve been exploring what it means to live it rat

The first line of Wayne Koestenbaum’s essay on James Schuyler: “Why write art criticism at all? For love. Also, sometimes, for money.” A couple paragraphs later: “In a review of Fairfield Porter’s paintings, Schuyler states what might be taken as his own credo: “Look now. It will never be more fascinating.” I’m looking now, and I’ve never been more fascinated, though I’ve never been more scared. In times of uncertainty, I turn towards language seeking pleasure and relief; I text you about nothing, because the something is already happening; I rearrange my dog’s limbs as he relaxes on his bed,