The Wait (weight).
Bitumen and red oils, 1.3 × 55 cms.
And she waits…
I largely invented this piece, all the material, etc, though some is done from life.
I have been trying different colour experimentation in combination with bitumen (it is the stuff that people use to fix their chimney flus with.)
I guess I am moving further away from contemporary art, but this is what i want to do, and I hope and believe that this work has a passion in it that is truly rare. “Show me that man that is not passion’s slave and I will wear him in my heart’s core, in my heart of hearts, as I do thee.” Shakespeare, sorry I forget which play.
And in all honesty, I don’t really like contemporary art very much. There are some jewels, of course – Jeff Coontz and his 40 foot puppy made out of living flowers is one of my all time favourites, I mean what a legend; and in the whole sphere there is some real genius, but the focus was lost somewhere around 1970.
The social partition, the endless, intricate fortress. impenetrable dissection. This hardness between us. The richness and lustre of its brutal texture. communal division, the
derisive and absolute separation of one from another.
I touch your life, you touch mine.
In bizarre dances of language and stance and exclamation. The supreme limits of communication sped and foiled by tongues and mouths. By fingers stretched and clasped.
We flail and grasp, turning to each other in that sacrosanct craving.
the ultimate supreme desire. Share ourselves, hope and wish and hope again for that ultimate touch of minds – she sees what I see, he shares my world.
They love me.
I am immersed in him, she is incomplete and a piece of her dies each time the bind of lust and trust beguiling each of our eyes fails for a throat clutching slipping moment… When our eyes unlock it damages me. And the most beautiful thing in the universe is that it wounds her, too.
We long for spiritual union, not communication. Each time we open our mouths or softly sing to another, each time we touch the face of a lover, hold a child that sobs and clings to us.
This desire, above all, rules us. It dictates to us, rises from our
vertebrae and curls in our chests. Our hands shake with love, with desire and overwhelming need. Our will is subsumed with this ache, this yearning.
Share with me. Open the depths, the dark places in your deepest bones, let me see your implicit and fixed love. I worship your psyche, your thought, your bitterness, your hate. Your foolishness, ineptitude and failure.
Affirmation and liberty, by pooled hastening reciprocation. Freedom from ourselves in the ultimate fastening between minds.
It decrees and declares to us, this need. It is one of the most essential and inescapable truths that doom us to what we are.
Ah… we are fated to it, this is what is there for us, ultimately, in the
darkest and most honest hours of the slow negredo (deepest black) hours before dawn.
Personally. Ah. Yes. Well I believe that the most pleasurable thing in life is to sleep with (I mean sleep here, not sex, though that vies and precludes my selection. A lot) someone you love. Feel their somnolence seep into you.
Colour your dreams with them as you hold them, as they coil their bodies against us.
There is some kind of blessed sleep, comfort and deep ease that it
As our dreaming essences spiral above us and, perhaps, intertwine.
Waking with a lover’s arms heavy against you.
No-one is as beautiful at any other time than when they sleep.
“Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care
The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast.”
~William Shakespeare, Macbeth
“In Sleep we lie all naked and alone, in Sleep we are united at the heart of
night and darkness, and we are strange and beautiful asleep; for we are
dying the darkness and we know no death.”
— Thomas Wolfe
We need to eat this peace, suck it into us. Even as it steals our time and slips us into fantastic, impossibly complex visions and sounds.
We must cultivate its strangeness and hold it to us.
For now, ah well, for now.
I will lie still. I will wait for whatever the fuck it is
that sleep is, that dreams are; that unification of healing, the indelible stamp of the extraordinary, the inexplicable.
And I will, of course, do it alone. Ah hell. Ah well.
The world scale, the aegis of Gods, the auspices of humanity, the sweet and simple, infinitely complex and bitter, love between two people.
What else to attempt, what else to find? How are we to begin the chant of living without knowing that this is, ultimately, what we seek?