There is much to sing about here. The glass of water. The fish out of it but still swimming happily around. The pawn, token of a game she has just learnt but is much taken by. Which she has natural advant- ages in since she can float above it & read the play as easily as she can read the myst- eries of the sea floor.
Which side has been taken & pressed upon the other one? Maybe with another artist it might be easy to determine — clean lines, symmetry, a space echoing what has been taken away from it — but Magritte rarely adheres to the strict guidelines for anything, & decalcomania is no except- ion. The curtain behind, in front of; the horizons evenly aligned but not the beach; one shoulder sloping more. En plein air the man blocks out the sea. The curtains ex- pose it as if he wasn't there.
A drunk man's words are often the disturbing thoughts of a sober one.
The dialectical law of negation of the negation calls us to re-visit the historical context within which the Western myth of human rights is conceived.
Agendas enter the local context. Hollywood celebrities enter into prenuptial agreements. The ideal version of democracy is a fluid entity which we constantly construct, deconstruct, reconstruct.
A touch of the modern & it would not be at all acceptable.
Who is going to cook dinner tonight, wash plates, change the baby's nappies?
The orchestra under the cypress tree kicks into life. A few bars; & then the scene we're watching on the small screen is replicated on a larger canvas that still permits the original viewing platform to be included in the corner, picture- within-picture style, framed by the only thing that might be a goal were it not for the pawn on top. Or maybe it was the other way around & downsizing has occurred. No spectators to see the "world game" shrunk to three a-side. The château now a simple manor house. A lone pianola.
I have always found imaginary landscapes more real than the real. The paintings of Magritte & de Chirico, the novels of LeGuin & Delany & Ballard — I am comfortable in these even though I may occasionally find them disturbing. Perhaps it's because I live my life vicariously, or perhaps it's because I have never found, though I've lived in quite a few of them, a city that felt like home.
The concealing shroud has shifted from the bedside of a sleeping Georgette & now resembles a bunch of damp towels as it rests on the tiles beside a bath that has no taps, no obvious out- let pipes. Rotate the painting, & stairs appear. & though the chapel at the top of them is set into solid rock, it means only that an exit is behind you. A- void the abyss which is al- ways here- or thereabouts. & beware the imminent arrival of a cascade of water falling from the upturned bath.
The sky comes on little fog feet. It pauses for maximum visual impact before moving on round the corner & then disappearing down the alleyway.
What fundamentalist church do the bilboquets belong to? Is this an awkward preamble in that once-a-year formal meeting at which the offspring are instructed who their lifetime partner will be? Are there other opportunities to encounter members of another gender outside of gospel rallies & church hall meetings? How often do they hold dances? Do they hold dances? Could this be actually a prelude to a dance, both sides uncertain how to proceed to better know one another without yet getting too close? Why is the outside angry? Where are the walls to shut it out. Who defines forever? When will the curtain be drawn?
Instead of a trident he holds a candelabra. Instead of candles it holds apartment buildings — not large ones, just three storeys each. In- stead of residents, they hold stories. For a small fee, the cicerone will recount them. A few cents more, & he'll embellish with special effects.
Maybe it depends upon the country you live in. But instead of images of sunburnt masculinity, a perfume called Summertime in these parts conjures up those several fevers whose vector is mosquitoes. Plus heat. & either humidity, the occasional hurri- cane, lots of rain, or else an infinite dryness that brings only drought, depending on which specific part of the land you live on. The smell of summertime is usually sweat — & where's the poetry in that?
