December 1961

Harold Persico Paris made this, December, with ink on paper, and it’s like a flurry of winter marks. The whole thing feels provisional, as if it could be wiped away or added to at any moment. I’m struck by the raw physicality of the ink; how it pools and spatters, building up a dense, almost sculptural surface. The black ink is laid on with urgency, but it’s far from chaotic. Look at the way Paris uses both thin, scratchy lines and thick, bold strokes to create a sense of depth and texture. Notice the way the ink bleeds into the paper, creating soft, blurry edges that contrast with the sharp, angular lines. It’s a dance between control and chance, a give-and-take between the artist and the medium. The poem at the bottom anchors the piece. Seeing this makes me think of Cy Twombly, with that same sense of immediacy and gesture. But where Twombly’s work often feels light and airy, Paris's feels heavier, more grounded. It shows how art can be a conversation across time, where each artist brings their unique voice and perspective to the table.