Wine, opened 10.29.11, Julia’s Dad brought it by to drink, I made some chicken and potatoes, Chateau Leoville Poyferre St. Julien 1966, it held up well in a cellar for 40-odd years, tasted delicious, yes, soft, fruit, then earth, then cedar, until the end of the bottle when the whole thing went south from too much exposure to the airs of the 21st century.
We sometimes make up remarkable words to describe the things we do, eat, drink, make, and imagine. The chicken, unremarkable, but good. The wine has a different vocabulary.
As part of an upcoming exhibition at MoMA of a project I worked on several years ago with artists Andrea Geyer, Sharon Hayes, Ashley Hunt, and Katya Sander, we have been asked to present a talk for “Modern Mondays” in April 2012. But where will the words come from? I have for the past several years back-burnered my fledgling middle-aged art career in favor of something of a career in the kitchen, where talk tends to be blunt, guttery, and quick to shut itself up and get back to work. I like to imagine that I have moved some distance from the flowery, impenetrable rhetorics of art and critical theory, far from an elitism I perceive myself, paradoxically, idiotically, to be above. Really? Far? Above? In the kitchen one might say, “Fuckin douche.”
My response to collaborators: “I will start preparing my remarks immediately. These remarks will be ‘solid, with a leafy edge to the core of pepper, plum and mulled fig notes, fanning out nicely on the lightly toasted finish.’ Now that is some highbrow mumbo-jumbo that Jacques Ranciere couldn't even shake a stick at! It just goes to show that one can never escape the discursive field, class politics, or the beautiful terrifying constitutive power of language.”
Or, for the talk, make up some vocabulary for chicken.