BPR 53 | 2026
A boy ran his toy car across the sculpture in
the middle of the room. Then ran the car
around the floor toward Untitled, 1970, beyond
the tape on the floor. The attendant scolded
the family, then the family scolded the boy.
But in that moment, Cy Twombly’s art was
released from its form. Twombly couldn’t have
imagined the possibility of the boy and the car,
cast against the sculpture, the floor, and the
tape, at that time, in that moment, in that
year, against my eyes, also born in 1970.
Because of the boy, the car, and my floating
eyes, everything far off became visible at
once. Twombly’s cursive scribbles like the
part of a swan’s wing that was underwater
for decades. The boy’s toy car was the other
part of the wing, the part that exploded out
of the water, and freed everything.
forthcoming from Tree of Knowledge, FSG, 2026