Poor Morris Louis. There was no debate during my Art of the 1960s class — his work was not art. Students likened his experiments with pouring paint to color theory classes. I stayed silent, of course, but I didn’t mind the colors he used in his works. They reminded me of fabric patters at times, especially a few I had come across in a few boxes of scraps that my mom has. A few I even wished were fabric, as they would make great shirts or hoodies.
The straight lines of color washing down the canvas let me know Frank Stella would be our next artist. I can’t believe it, sometimes. If Louis isn’t art, then the happenings are bogus in my mind. Oh well. Perhaps he wanted to be a designer all along and was just playing around with line.
On another note, I began reading up about growing plants indoors. I saw a photo of a cucumber plant and I couldn’t stop smiling. I remember having a garden when I was little and most of the time growing up. It seemed like a chore, but in the years we didn’t have it I truly missed it. Now, in my apartment, and annoyed by the produce I see in the stores (and the prices), I think I’ll do something with the huge window seat that I never sit on.