#397 Le Voyageur

Botticelli lives in the ground-
floor flat. Most of the time
you hardly know he's there
except for those days when
Venus emerges, pauses, poses
on the welcome mat & a host
of classical gods & dryads &
nymphs & cherubim come
gathering around. Which, of
course, brings a crowd of mere
mortals. Half of whom continue
to gaze, & half of those think
something nefarious is going on,
& half of those think it might be
a porn video being made, & half
of them contact the police, & half
of those . . .& half . . . & ha . . . &
somewhere in the madding crowd
is a dude who's catching it all on
cell phone & dreaming of a You-
Tube video called Proving Zeno's
Paradox, & is busy looking round
for a tortoise to give that touch of
authenticity & frisson to the piece.

#396 The Birth of the Idol

Here there are no judges'
chairs that turn around.
Rather, in a somewhat
hyperactive nod to Botticelli,
it is the the whitecaps that
rage & foam. A symbiotic
frenzy. They give energy
to her knowing that she'll
give it back to them when
she emerges full-grown

from this half-hell. The am-
bience is pure de Chirico
punk, whether pre- or post-
apocalyptic one is never
quite sure. Is augmented by
Magritte's props which are
stacked up ready to take
their places when later called
upon. Mirrors, & doors with
holes cut in them — a way

through a way through, a
different way of seeing. &
the idol herself, un bilboquet
désarmé which allows her fingers
free range to trace the template
she poises on. Is there enough
humanity within this segment
sliced from human simulacrum to
allow her to progress, given that
the stairs go neither up nor down?