Art: Poet of the Personal

Some of my best friends are my walking shoes tucked away in the corner of my foolish pocket of felt objects . . , —Jim Dine

There was a pair of old loafers, worn within a day of falling apart and mounted as casually as if their owner had just stepped out of them. And a green suit, stiff with splattered paint and age, its trousers nothing but ribbons. And bathroom sinks, garden tools, paint brushes, and the names of hundreds of people crammed onto one giant autograph book of a canvas. Last...

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