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What does it mean when you hook up your work to that of a late modernist giant working in a reductive vein - Ad Reinhardt, Agnes Martin, Robert Ryman, Ellsworth Kelly, Frank Stella, or Donald Judd, for example - like a caboose? I am not talking about engaging directly with another artist's work or ideas, but of perpetuating a look or, in the case of Wade Guyton, the various monochromatic, striped and geometric surfaces we associate with Minimalism.

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Adam Zagajewski

Cities at daybreak are no one's, and have no names. And I, too, have no name, dawn, the stars growing pale, the train picking up speed.

Cities, Dawn, Growing, Names, Speed, Stars
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Read for yourselves, read for the sake of your inspiration, for the sweet turmoil in your lovely head. But also read against yourselves, read for questioning and impotence, for despair and erudition. . . and also read those whose darkness or malice or madness or greatness you can't understand because only in this way will you grow, outlive yourself, and become what you are.

Greatness, Grow, Inspiration, Sake, Sweet, Way

Time takes life away and gives us memory, gold with flame, black with embers.

Black, Flames, Giving, Memories, Takes, Time

In summer the empire of insects spreads.

Empire, Empires, Insects, Summer

A certain traveler who knew many continents was asked what he found most remarkable of all. He replied: the ubiquity of sparrows.

Asked, Found, Sparrows, Traveler, Ubiquity

Once in a while it vanishes - in the sense that I become deaf to beauty for a week or two or three. This coming and going of the inner life - because this is what it is - is a curse and a blessing. I don't need to explain why it's a curse. A blessing because it brings about a movement, an energy which, when it peaks, creates a poem. Or a moment of happiness.

Blessing, Energy, Peaks, Sense, Two, Vanishes
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