In John Ashbery‘s River of the Canoefish, mackerel echo their meaning in Yeats‘ Sailing to Byzantium, but with Ashbery’s own note of revulsion for the mindless forces of biology:
Yeats:
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
Ashbery:
Today they are as abundant as mackerel, as far as the eye can see,
tumbled, tumescent, tinted all the colors of the rainbow
though not in the same order,
a swelling, scumbled mass, rife with incident
and generally immune to sorrow.
Shall we gather at the river? On second thought, let’s not.
In Ashbery’s honor, a small survey of the art of disgust. Shall we gather at the river? On second thought, let’s not.
Marc Quinn, SELF (red), 2006
Katy Stone, Explosion 7 (double bloom), 2006
Acrylic on Duralar, pins
Grant Barnhart, 1938 Acrylic on canvas, 2009
Jon Haddock R.King – Screenshot Series
2000
chromogenic print from digital file created in photoshop
Nigel Cooke, Mind, 2008 Oil/Canvas
What a good idea for the holidays. A tribute to disgust. You wonder why people don’t like art critics?
Phil, don’t be a holiday fascist. Every day is a good day for disgust.
Any day is a good day for John Ashbery, you mean.