A Supermarket in California is a series of collages on wood inspired by Allen Ginsberg’s poem of the same name. The project draws from the poem's exploration of consumerism, the disillusionment of modern life, and the contrasts between individual consciousness and mass society.
Using found imagery, I reconstruct the surreal and fragmented scenes of the poem, juxtaposing the artificial nature of commercial spaces with the natural world they often overshadow. The wood surface serves as a tactile connection to both the organic and industrial, grounding the work in a materiality that reflects the poem's themes of loss, desire, and the search for meaning amidst the mechanization of everyday life.
Through layering and abstraction, A Supermarket in California reflects Ginsberg’s critique of consumer culture while exploring how contemporary society commodifies experiences, memories, and identities. The collages capture the sense of alienation and longing that permeates the poem, while also questioning the cost of progress and the value of authenticity in a world consumed by mass production and consumption.
︎
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
Berkeley, 1955
Allen Ginsberg, “A Supermarket in California” from Collected Poems 1947-1980. Copyright © 1984 by Allen Ginsberg.
Using found imagery, I reconstruct the surreal and fragmented scenes of the poem, juxtaposing the artificial nature of commercial spaces with the natural world they often overshadow. The wood surface serves as a tactile connection to both the organic and industrial, grounding the work in a materiality that reflects the poem's themes of loss, desire, and the search for meaning amidst the mechanization of everyday life.
Through layering and abstraction, A Supermarket in California reflects Ginsberg’s critique of consumer culture while exploring how contemporary society commodifies experiences, memories, and identities. The collages capture the sense of alienation and longing that permeates the poem, while also questioning the cost of progress and the value of authenticity in a world consumed by mass production and consumption.
︎
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
Berkeley, 1955
Allen Ginsberg, “A Supermarket in California” from Collected Poems 1947-1980. Copyright © 1984 by Allen Ginsberg.
