How to Explain Pictures to a Dead Deer

A List of Grievances

. . . the shipyard cries its whale song for shift change. My eyes eat up a fearful driver’s high beams . . .

The deer, unthoughtful of death and unafraid———white lanterns and a curve ahead in the road gorging itself on headlights, black gates, a field of headstones, the deer’s antlered shadow on a white house,

Karl Knaths, Frightened Deer in Moonlight (1932)

gone, mist collected on windows, a tree looming over the house on the hill, a car parked in an empty lot with fogged windows, sheets of forming ice down the rocky beach, waves slow, soft white glow of more and more white light, downcast green light—like a distant planet—hanging from a pole, curve after curve, thick wall of fog dreaming of snow———balmy winter breeze like sweet breath of fever from the mouth of a naked, burning woman———rabbits in the fog. . . lost rabbits in the fog. . . at the low gates near black-green forests around lonely cabins———rabbits running in the dew,

Detail from Joseph Beuys, How to Explain Pictures to a Dead Hare (1965)

our black rainbow oil puddles, our asphalt road—rabbit in the corner of the eye of a headlight, back again inside the fog—the deer, a single sad strand of rose gold lights, mailbox receded into the tree line. . . ashamed, everything hangs its head, a deep mist now spraying against the thawing sheet of frozen, slow, creeping waves— .

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𝔚𝔢 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪 𝔞𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔦𝔱, 𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔶𝔰, ℑ 𝔴𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢. 𝔅𝔲𝔱 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔣𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔢𝔢 𝔦𝔱, 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔢𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔶𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔡𝔬𝔫’𝔱 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔞 𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔦𝔠𝔢. 𝔜𝔬𝔲’𝔡 𝔟𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔶 𝔱𝔬 𝔞 𝔧𝔬𝔟, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲’𝔯𝔢 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔤𝔬 𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔱, 𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔨 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔱 𝔦𝔱. 𝔑𝔬 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔈𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔥 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔤𝔬 𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢, 𝔟𝔢𝔠𝔞𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲’𝔳𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔭𝔰𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯. 𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔢𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔭𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔞 𝔰𝔢𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔡, 𝔭𝔢𝔬𝔭𝔩𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔠𝔞𝔰𝔢, 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔫’𝔱 𝔤𝔬 𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔗𝔥𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔰 𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔴 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔪𝔬𝔟𝔦𝔩𝔢 𝔦𝔫.1

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... and an old quarry facing the waves, “that’s the signpost just ahead,”

(———and the shipyard cries its whale song for shift change. My eyes eat up a fearful driver’s high beams...)

The world presses its lips together and puts a ghost’s hand on your shoulder: its dead leaves, its angry mothers pushing strollers, its quiet dogs, its mossy headstones, its hallway crucifixes, its city benches,

     its paralyzed grass,
     its clinging sunlight,
     as if crawling out from the soil,
     buildings designed by morticians
     and iron gates spiked with the dew of commemoration.
     All of it becomes a museum where even the shadows have been painted white...

Kazimir Malevich, Suprematist Composition: White on White, (1917–1918)

. . . deer or a collection of firs down by the cliffs or sourceless beam of light hiding here in small void of woodland.

1. Burial in Mark Fisher, Ghosts of My Life (Zero Books), 108.