11th August

The truth is she’s tired of men not treating her like the gift she believes she is. It’s a problem she wants to correct – starting now! She has dogs, a pair of Airedales raised from pups. Both are as neurotic as she; as vain as she, in my opinion. The dogs guard the only exit from this room.

Often her mind lays open like a drawer of lethal kitchen knives. She touches the blades one at a time. Her touch is that of a lover, lingering on cold steel. Who ever saw such grace? Such monstrous longing for blood? With such blades as these she could shrieve a soul from the pangs of hell.

‘I have something here,’ she says, smiling like one driven mad by desire. ‘Something I want to show you. Come look. You’ll never be the same again, I promise – ’

Eugène Berman - View in Perspective of a Perfect Sunset

Diary 2nd June

I might steal words from the mouth of Beckian Fritz Goldberg to describe last weekend: words seeming coy or used to shock! However, it’s her “extravagant, sensual fabulations of obsessive memory and the longing it inspires” that I most desire to plagiarise. Not the ice idly dropped “right where, right where” on her you know what – so, yes, something more than titillating erotica is required. Her poetry is suffused with longing – for an old lover, for the past, in particular a “cryptic” childhood partly idealised by wounded memory. Here there be both pleasure and pain. Unlike the plain catastrophe of my own childhood, Ms Goldberg evokes a lush musicality from out of her past…

“Furtively my father would slip a hand under the table and knock. I was three so I’d look around and look under the table wanting to know where it came from and how and that’s when father would drink my milk. I’d sit back up to a drained glass. What happened to my milk? My father would tell me it was the little girls who lived under the floor. They were hungry and wanted my milk. They might want my peas. I knew enough to sense it was a game, to half-believe there weren’t really girls living below us. But I had a vision of them anyway, all blonde with long straight hair, dressed in chambray smocks with frilled white aprons, reaching up, up toward my floor. Otherwise, they seemed to accept their world which must be dark and musty. They’d knock. A chicken wing would disappear.”
(From: My Descent by Beckian Fritz Goldberg)

Quite, quite beautiful, these milk and pea thieves – or, rather, the idea behind them! An “affirmation of the fantastical”. Imagination as damaged memory…

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Mark Rothko once said, “It is important to the human spirit to create art, to experience art, to be open to art. It allows the exultation of the heart and spirit.”

In visual art words are unimportant. The artwork is what it appears to be to the viewer and no more than that. The viewer, by definition, becomes an inherent part of the artwork and any meaning it possesses belongs to the viewer…
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So, last weekend?

A long weekend, yes, with the hours flowing over us like moth clouds. You in white. Me – seething within like a hungry wolf and running with the changing tides – organizing a BBQ for everyone, but wanting only to taste the endless salt flats of you…You who can teach me the sky once again…Ignoring the dead sound of champagne corks and the conversation like the sound of children talking to sunbeams…

Eventually night must fall and our guests depart. Then we will find ourselves hopelessly tangled in its wide-cast nets, in its oceanic depths. Lost in unfathomable majesty. In the delights of the flesh, entwined, a good dream at last.

Oh, to drown in this wine-dark sea of desire with you…

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Having to talk destroys the symphony of silence…