Barnett Newman separated the
picture plane as neatly as the winter horizon, its decisive line of crimson
from south to north, separates sky from the darkened world of homes viewed
intermittently from the divided windows of a peak-hour train between Bentleigh
and Caulfield. Is any horizon a perfect line? Or is it given to human
imperfections of rule, no matter how steady the artist’s hand and eye? There
the comparison ends, for by Armadale or Hawksburn the July sky has turned a
dreamy black paled by city lights and flecked by distinct dabs that could be stars, helicopters, or
eye-motes.
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