Marc Cohen's Page

Relationship status

married

College / University

Vassar College; University of Toronto

Member type

Artist

If you're an artist, what kind of art do you make?

Drawing, Painting

I am...

All of us stand around in a circle and nod our heads. It’s just the sort of thing Cohen could put right, if he were here. But he’s not here. So he can’t.

We talk about the time he did that thing for us. It was quite the predicament, we had no solutions. We thought we were goners for sure. But Cohen knew just what to do. We were lucky to have him around then. Too bad he’s not here now.

He showed us it was all about the process. We thought it was about content. He was so right, so insightful. We had never looked at it from that point of view before. How long has it been, several years? Everything was just so, we said, for who could think otherwise? Only Cohen could, it seems.

That was Cohen’s way, always seeing things differently. Always seeing what others cannot.

We could do it ourselves, someone says. Yes, we could do it ourselves. We could go to the libraries and study the books. Consult the experts. Treat language like a roadmap to understanding.

Someone argues it’s just a question of making a proper adjustment. A fine-tuning. Others say we should retrace our steps. Start over, from the ground up. So we debate the facts for a long time, revisit and invert all the formulas, until finally, nobody feels like talking much. Stand on rooftops while the sun sets and rises again, like living shadows. Life’s like that, when you’re stuck on the margins.

When Cohen’s around, things go. When Cohen’s around, things turn out to be. When Cohen’s around, things make the grade. They chug and whir and spit and spin, quiver like strings on a violin. Life’s a symphony when Cohen’s around.

But when he’s away, it’s like time glassed over. A chess game with missing pieces, or a puzzle. Windows look out onto the empty streets and gather darkness and ash. You can stare for hours and hours, but you’re not going to see anything. No sir, you’re not. Because he speaks a different language from you, and that makes all the difference.

He’s not here now. We called his wife, she has no idea. We called his secretary, she is not. His friends and associates. Oh, he’ll come, he’ll come. So they say. So we hope. But, you see, it’s getting to be a drag waiting for him like this, up until the last minute, until the moment when all hope is extinguished.

If he were here right now, I’d tell him to his face. But he’s not here. So I can’t.

The centre of the artworld is

New York

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