John Chamberlain

Gift of the artist to Robert Creeley, Buffalo

The extreme edges of the board have eroded slightly, which has resulted in minor paint loss, which is most pronounced at the corners of the composition; there is scattered surface soiling; scattered creases and tears to the paper collage element are likely inherent to the artist's choice of medium. Unframed.
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The poet Robert Creeley and artist John Chamberlain shared a lifelong bond and friendship. Their relationship was forged around 1956 when Creeley was teaching literature and writing at Black Mountain College and Chamberlain was immersed in his art studies. The liberal arts school encouraged its students and instructors to openly share and exchange their ideas to further foster the creative process regardless of the medium of expression for their outpourings. Thus, Creeley and Chamberlain began their dialogue that would inform and influence each other's practice throughout their relationship which lasted six decades.

The poet and visual artist each created work that spoke of their profound confusion and sadness over the events of World War II and the evolving post-War climate in America. Both men used humble materials to create their work: Creeley a paper and pencil, Chamberlain the metal from cars and industrial waste, rubber, foam and paper bags. Chamberlain's lyrical titles for his sculptures reflect a deep appreciation for poetic language, which is often traced back to Creeley's early influence on Chamberlain's development.

Creeley frequently wrote essays and poetry celebrating his friend Chamberlain. In turn, Chamberlain gifted works to the poet including each of the following sculptures, painting and photographs. Moreover, in 1988, the two minds collaborated to produce a portfolio of lithographs and poems entitled Famous Last Words that would commemorate in printed form their mutual admiration.

For John Chamberlain

Robert Creeley

They paid my way here
and I'll get myself home.
Old saying:
Let the good times roll
         ...

This is Austin
spelled with an H? This is
Houston, Texas—
Houston Street is back there—

ways in and out
of New York. The billboards
are better than the natural view,
you dig. I came here

just to see you, personal
as God and just as real.
I may never go home
again. Meantime

 

the lead room with the x
number of people
under the street
is probably empty tonight.

In New York, in
some other place.
Many forms.
Many farms, ranches

in Texas—many places,
many miles, big
endless spaces they say.
This is Marlboro Country

with box those dimensions,
module. Old movie of you
using baler with the crunchers
coming down so delicately.

The kids in the loft, long space.
The Oldenburgs going to work,
eight o'clock. Viva
talking and talking. Now I'm

stoned again, I was
stoned again, all that
past, years
also insistent dimension.

If I could take the world,
and put it on its side, man,
and squeeze just in the right
places. Wow. I don't think

much of interest would happen.
Like the lion coming into the room
with two heads, we'd all end up
killing it to see it.

From the estate of Robert Creeley by permission of Penelope Creeley