Many believed that politeness was just a mask, that what was said may not be what was meant or thought: or, from the other side, thought to mean, though the politeness was reciprocated. Not quite the bland leading the bland, but close enough. What we have here acknowledges those rules but is much more an- gular, abrupt, an elbow to the ribs. All politeness torn away: the mask is empty; but the words that hide behind the words be- hind the mask are now exposed. A pity we cannot see them all.
The wall is artifice, is illusion, a masque to keep the forest at bay — at least it seems that way until the hunter gets his arm stuck in it & Newton's law of universal gravitation kicks in. Or, equally, kicks out. Allegorically, this could be a depiction of the "first great unification," a realization of the attraction of particles. Or, if you're so inclined, another allegory, where Isaac Newton is the hunter, presenting the 1st Book of his Principia to the Royal Society, & Robert Hooke is represented by the wall, ac- cusing Newton of plagiarism &, as punishment for the theft, attempting to take his hand off.
"Put it into perspective," the fado singer says as the white bird wheels away & takes the daytime with it. "Except for the stars, the sky will be empty now for several hours; & though having a supposed symbol of hope around might at first seem comforting, grief is best left to emerge when one is in the open or beside the sea. Clean, simple. No melodrama."
The painter, flushed with pride from the achievement of turning Venus de Milo in to flesh before he posed her in a meadow, finally recog- nizes his hubris when the shadow that has started following him everywhere makes him aware that any statue can stand still for long enough to have a beard & mustache painted on them.
We lived in a house full of models for, & details from, paintings. Inside & out. My father showed me how to use the wings he built by teaching me how to ride a a horse & wield a whip. Everything so large when I was young, save for the Sun which seemed so far away.
Has he taken a bite from the side of the apple we cannot see? Is that what he is tasting? Or is there an additional something — let's say a piece of butter- scotch to give it a whisker of substance — hidden in behind that apple, another entity which will be either visible or invisible depend- ing on the side of the apple the observer finds themself at a particular point in time? "Here we have the apparent visible, the apple, hiding the hidden visible, the person’s face." R.M.
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Today the post- woman brought me an already ex- pensive castle in the Pyrenees. If I had added the optional extra of that giant bird found in some Magritte paintings it would have cost me an arm & a leg on top of a basic price I can't really afford. & since Ma- gritte is dead, I don't trust the vendor's guarantee that the artist will paint any missing limbs back on me, just like he did to the model in Attemp- ting the Impossible. |
It appears as if birds with ancient lineages find it difficult to deal with the present on its own terms unless they have some well- worn article from the past to comfort them.
The bilboquet is monocular, a cyclops in an uninhabited land- scape whose presence does not change the land around even if it does add some life to its sur- rounds, even if the addition ofa cloak brings more humanity. Elsewhere, the ruined watch- tower is in the act of changing, those roots insinuating a future tree, even if il y a belle lurette, even if that started a long time ago.
From Amazon in Belgium I can order this as a "Canvas Wall Art Print for Living Room Home Decor Ready to Hang (90 x 117 cm (31.5 x 46.1 in)), Framed" for just €191.26. I think of buying it, to see if it does for me what another portrait did for Dorian Gray. But then, but then. At 81 it's probably too late to weave any magic it might have had on me, even though the web- site says it's a great gift idea for Valentine's Day which just happens to be today. What finally turns me away is a sudden vision of the aging process occuring — since we have no attic — in the back garden shed, the teeth at first, then the lungs, the hearing, the knees. It's not the actual deterioration, rather the caveat from the vendor: that spare parts are not available nor provided.
For once the tie's knot fills the collar. The pipe, more merlot than the indian red of the tie, still manages — through the medium of the lips — to blend in with it. It's taken sixty or so years; but the man's finally got some dress sense.
