By Robert Morris
The writings are prepared chronologically, starting with “Indiana Street,” a bright autobiographical account of the artist’s early years in Kansas urban, Missouri. Have I Reasons comprises reflections on Morris’s personal site-specific installations; transcripts of seminars he carried out at the side of exhibitions; and the textual section of The Birthday Boy, the two-screen video-and-sound piece he put in on the Galleria dell’Accademia in Florence, Italy, at the party of the 500th anniversary of Michelangelo’s David. Essays variety from unique interpretations of Cézanne’s Mont Sainte-Victoire work and Jasper Johns’ early paintings to engagements with one in all Morris’s most important interlocutors, the thinker Donald Davidson. Have I Reasons conveys not just Morris’s enduring deep curiosity in philosophy and problems with resemblance and illustration but additionally his more moderen flip towards without delay addressing modern social and political matters corresponding to company extra and preemptive belligerence.
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Additional info for Have I Reasons: Work and Writings, 1993–2007
Merhaba, trumpeter! ’ I accosted him. ‘I am Jan Morris from Wales, on my first actual morning in Hav! ’ He responded in sort. ‘And i'm Missakian the trumpeter,’ he laughed. ‘Merhaba, strong morning to you! ’ ‘Missakian! You’re Armenian? ’ ‘But evidently. The trumpeters of Hav continually are. you recognize the legend of Katourian? good, then you definately will comprehend’ — and after an alternate of pleasantries, expressing the wish that we'd meet back, ‘not really so early within the morning, perhaps’, trumpet below his arm, he resumed his growth around the sq.. Which jogged my memory, because the mist started to elevate, of someplace like Cracow or Kiev, so gray and cobbled did it appear to be, and so monstrous. It was once hardly ever worthy exploring then, so in its place I that rumble, which appeared to have its concentration someplace away to my left, and located myself in a mesh of sidestreets I knew now not the place, becoming a member of the extreme procession of site visitors that makes its manner every one morning to Hav’s old industry at the waterfront. Pendeh sq., the nice critical plaza of town, is closed to all site visitors until eventually seven within the morning, however the thoroughfares round it, i found, have been already clogged with all demeanour of cars. there have been pick-up vans with brightly painted aspects. there have been motorbikes toppling with the load in their loaded sidecars. there have been inner most vehicles with milk-churns on their roofs. males in vast straw hats and striped cotton gallabiyehs and ladies in headscarves and lengthy black skirts lolloped alongside on pony carts, and a string of mules glided by, weighed down with firewood. They moved, for all of the noise in their engines and the rattle in their wheels at the cobblestones, in a type of hush, very intentionally; and that i discovered myself stuck up within the regular press of it, stared at apparently yet with out remark, till all of us debouched into the broad market-place on the water’s side, the place fishing-boats have been moored bow to stern alongside the jetty, and the place because the sunlight broke during the morning fog all was once already bustle and move. In each urban the morning marketplace, the first thing to take place on a daily basis, bargains a sign up of the general public personality. Few provide so violent a primary influence because the waterside marketplace of Hav. it appears unregulated, obviously immemorial, it appeared to me that morning partially like a Marseilles fish-wharf, and in part just like the outdated Covent backyard, and partially like a flea-market, for there looked to be virtually not anything, at six within the morning, that used to be no longer there on sale. every little thing used to be inextricably careworn. One stall should be hung all over the place with umbrellas and plastic galoshes, the following piled excessive with celery and packing containers of fit to be eaten grass. there have been mounds of apples, artistically prepared, there have been stacks of trainers and racks of sun shades and rows of previous radios. there have been spare components for autos, suitcases with photos of the pyramids embossed upon them, rolls of silk, nylon undies in yellows and sickly pinks, brass trays, chinese language medications, hubble-bubbles, espresso beans in enormous tin boxes, souvenirs of Mecca or Istanbul, second-hand-book stalls with grubby previous volumes in lots of languages — I regarded within a duplicate of Moby Dick, and stamped inside its covers have been the phrases ‘Property of the yankee collage, Beirut’.