Richard Serra died last week. I didn’t know he was sick.
The day before his death we visited his installation at Dia Beacon.
Vast torqued ellipses—cor-ten steel, the stuff of battleships—material—raw—the space distorted by the curves—negative space invited in to becoming positive.
Words have always failed me with Serra. But I have sought out his Cathedral’s—for that is what they are—wherever they are located. I have stood in awe, without words, before them.
I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this.
Some years ago I was at the Gagosian where some of his works were. Big round cylinders. It was a late evening in January, the night before my birthday. I was in the presence of his work alone.
Alone I kissed his work. I licked it and inhaled it. Madness? Perhaps?
But let all art drive us to madness.
Always.
I agree. His work leaves one speechless in front of majesty.