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Show 163 Over the next ten days, Hunt finished all the exacted paintings, working very much in the same sort of semi-conscious memory cloudbank that he'd worked in the initial evening. He meandered from surface to surface, easel to easel, applying paint, making color, making image, the greater part of his mind in other realms, most often his New England childhood. He visited his grandmother's farm, remembered lying on the floor between a heat register and a braided rug, after Thanksgiving dinner listening to his parents and to aunts and uncles talk politics. He remembered how his breath, exhaling and hitting the rising warmth from the register, had the scent of his grandmother's pickles. And his mind journeyed to Lower Sixth Avenue and his uncle and a little park there and a delicatessen. And he strode the walks of Harvard Yard with his father. And he felt the water of the Harvard swimmingpools Saturday mornings around his suitless body, heard the thunk of basketballs on the gymnasium floor after swimming, skipped to the snese of cindery wind blowing through the open gratefront of the Mass Transit subways that he and his friends, The Lincoln Street Gang, used to ride into Washington Street. And there was his mother's chicken cacciatore, her laughter, the smell of the sweaters she used to wear. And there was his brother. And sister. On September 8th, Hunt crated and shipped all the contracted paintings: Irwin Suskind/ Karpus Gallery/ 1076 Madison Avenue/ NYC, N.Y./ 10047. His wide black magic marker inked in Return Address: but then only poised scenting the air with its amoniac chemical. Reuben Garrison? Should he invent a return? Hunt couldn't write anything. He drove all the crates to the United Parcel warehouse and shipped them off. |
