Hans Hoffman’s Elysium
It sang me a song of its own making, radiant-faced, verdant,
the birth-song of an ensouled object, a living door shape-shifting
around plangent bell-struck passages. Mr. Hoffman (then in his
eightieth year) ripe as a pomegranate, brush and knife pendant
and glistening like fruit, stained the canvas, began it—did he
see something quicken, put his hand on the paint, feel it ripple
in its womb? And when he stepped back after the god-act of
breathing life into dust, did he smile as angels of every color
laced their notes into one shimmering voice, polyphonic and free?
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For more on Hans Hoffman, take a look here.
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