Who Made That Sculpture? Who Made That Lollipop?
Artists live a short time.
What they produce belongs to the time in which they create their best work.
But, what is their best work?
Why is it their best work?
Does their best work gain a life of its own?
I am in a building, in northern Paris
where is stored an ocean of documents
these papers do not attempt to answer
questions of quality, popularity, endurance
of cultural or social value,
or immortality of the artist
or artwork.
It is simply a pile of contracts and letters
between the individual artists who have received a commission
to produce an artwork
and the bureaucrat who made payment.
It makes clear how much the artist was paid in total
and how much time passed between installments.
Almost always the artist has to plead for payment,
even when payment is due.
Countless artists are documented.
Their names might otherwise be lost,
as many of the artworks have joined their creators in oblivion.
We are each such invisible figures with no real immortality.
Who is the person who paid the artist?
Who was the man who delivered the block of marble to his atelier?
Who dug it out of the ground?
Who wrote or chose to not write about the artwork?
Who were these people?
Are they any more or less vital to the story of human activity
than perhaps some minor athlete?
A glowing creature kicking a ball
in the short grass?
Who bought the ball?
Who sold the ball?
Who made the ball?
What shoes was she wearing?
I want to see her feet.
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