There is Flash or there is Light
I am guilty of
mistaking paint for blood
Wasn’t the correlation direct? Between what you colored her red ankles and how you feel
in the every moment existing? Your brush is an extension of your bones, n’est pas? Black a mirror pool of your own night and rose, dear smudged light-damaged red, the last ten minutes of sleeping?
Tell me please that this piece is you and not simply “Yours” because you don’t own shit. I’ve already seen it… there’s no reclaiming.
::: Roland Barthes ::: Death of the Author ::: Birth of the Reader ::: Consciousness in Seeing :::
Ugggh my mistake if this what you’ll go so far to call “art” was but a role-play. A practice of seeing the regard of others before moving your hand, crippling your own fingers under the pressure of their imagined presence… quelle damage. L’art, répétez après moi, est défini par l’origine: la vérité. AS you are ME and HIM or HER (somehow in moments and fits of wanting), think no longer of what they(we) shall see. Creer sous la submission des yeux imaginaires is too make what you’ve made, so to say, unreal.
He turned his eyes upon mine and asked a question to forever torture philosophers, “And art is … ?” I sat, imagine perhaps, an elf upon a polka-dotted mushroom cap chin-in-hands forever pondering ART’s wayward particulars and suggested,
“A relevant response to another artist, which is why,” I continued excitedly, “nous avons besoins des critiques car ils suivent les conversations artistiques… they know, we hope, if a pair of purple lips placed just so is a reference to [...]” (And goodness knows how darling the mouth in the heat of such conversation: lips to take on that metallic sheen particular of Daniel Craig just before uncoiling).
Anyway, I’d felt satisfied with my naïve response up until thinking of Merce Cunningham whose initial performances in Berlin were meet with hissing tomatoes. Reception plays its part I’m sure, critics play another… but this is but a dance around what several million sensibilities just gave birth to.
And truth keeps on finding me. Art’s, somehow, the equation in reverse. (2 + 2 = something that is true.) To define art, we must go about defining this first.
It was maroon, that paint. It lifted easily from the porcelian and washed down the drain.
L’encre sur mes mains n’est pas sorti si facilement.
I know you he said
Kissing the black stains between my fingers.