I want to mention Columns & Catalogues (The Figures 1994) and 7 Days(The Figures), both by Peter Schjeldahl. I got 7Days strictly because The Figures offered it. I was trying to support a good press by buying its wares. I had heard of Schjeldahl as a NEW YORK POET but didn't knw his work. these 2 books collect his art writing. there's a gig, go to museums and galleries, look at stuff, and write about it. I could get myself around that idea. PS does it well. his prose is scintillant, as befits, I suppose, what's largely magazine fare. I don't know a lot of the artists he writes about, contemporary artists, but that doesn't matter. it is rollicking stuff to read. how's this, in reference to Matisse: "It is about decoration raised to a level of panic: representations slammed up to the surface with linear rhythms and color combinations registering as willfully arbitrary pattern, every detail a surprise and the ensemble a riot." hey, I'd like to see some poetry like that. I suppose the books are out of print, and I dunno where The Figures stands as a publishing entity. or maybe you read PS's piece in the Voice and decided he just got it, grrrr, wrong about Jopseph Beuys. it is not so much his opinions that attract me, given I am ignorant of many of his reference points, it is his energetic stance, both beguiled and steadfast. he even has an essay that confronts his life of former poet/current critic. the standard gripe against Flann O'Brien consists of lamenting all the great writing he didn't do while he dithered with his newspaper columns. aside from pointing to some great strange novels (if you haven't taken the tour of a particularly oddball hell with The Third Policeman, I give you my special invites), I would speak to the living intensity that exists in the writing he did, contra expectations. it pleases me to read this writing, makes me want to look at paintings, makes me want to paint some. all good energies.