I had passed that stretch of chain-link on eleven separate nights before the object arrived at it. November 19th, 1:07 AM. The wind had pushed what was left of the canopy flat against the wire and was holding it there, working it, lifting and dropping the torn cloth in a rhythm that showed no interest in stopping. The fence took the shape of the umbrella. The umbrella took the shape of the fence. Caravaggio’s Flagellation keeps the column upright and the light on the shoulders and lets everything else go black, and the entire business is conveyed by posture alone. Here the wire did the work. The viewer will note the diamond pattern printed across the cloth where it pressed, a grid pushed into a fabric that will never recover its flatness, and one small torn scrap lying on the wet ground at the bottom of the frame, already separated, already no longer part of the thing it came from. Fifth station. I painted the wind by painting what the wind was doing to the cloth. There is no other way to paint it.
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