THE GALLERY
"POETRY, LET ME LOVE YOU EVEN IF I INSIST TOO MUCH. LOVE YOU IN DOTS BUT ALWAYS LOVE YOU. NEVER BREAK UP WITH YOU, I PRAY. EXCUSE ME WHEN I STOP THINKING. I KNOW. I KNOW THAT SOMETIMES I PRETEND NOT TO LIKE WORDS. SOMETIMES TO FEEL CLOSE TO OTHERS I PRETEND TO HAVE NO HEART SO THAT LOVING YOU ISN'T BORING TO BE TOO MUCH OF AN "I LOVE YOU" AND NOT ENOUGH OF A "GOOD MAN" IS TO RISK BEING AWFUL. SO LET ME BE AWFUL AT LOVING YOU DISCREETLY."
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Beware the eyes that watch the morose mouths and the bees. They all gather roses and images as mornings and mirages pass by, using words and cunning too much. When evening comes, they wake up. One is human, the other barbaric. Appearances are deceptive, sulphurous under their elegant complexion. Between the gladiolus, they advance, unknown. One kills while the other is alone and naked.
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Sometimes I am no longer driven by a poetic desire . Speech is taken away from me. What interests and excites me suddenly seems to flee. So I turn around at the bottom of the garden. Again I see those flightless birds. They are filled with questions without audacity. The same ones, it seems to me, that had stolen my gaze only yesterday. I keep the appearance brave, courageous, but the heart is open and cut to him. Hope is far away, invisible.
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Some seasons are steeped in ebony. Others in ivory.
In the middle, mine creates stories. Whatever the colour of the lead, be sure to read between the lines.
It looks like one of those deposits where the rare stones that adorn crowns are found. Extremely fragile and infinitely capricious.
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Swept away because my presence doesn't suit their freedom. With the force of wear and tear, sometimes I'm no longer robust. My back disappears, my vertebrae fade,
but I'm still here. I watch them die savagely.
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They shelter. They collect. They remain silent, impartial. They betray none. They are solid, they listen. They lose nothing. Whatever you tell them, they keep and record. Secrets, ignored, in a golden memory.
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Traits sometimes connect us, sometimes separate us. Lines shape who we are. Lines cross out, underline, hide, replace and erase. Physically, they mark. Moral, they characterise. In one stroke, I trace the path I follow, I create who
I want, I eliminate as I wish. I make tomorrow a new line or a continuity.
I have chosen a single line, a single stroke. A single line to block the way to the filthy mawkishness, the insipid colours. Just one to bring me closer to the only and completely such. And if I fail, if I overflow, let my line take me away. My heart will stop before my tears flow. The impalpable absolute will become in the palm of my hand. I will be reborn without ever having died for something new.
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Something unique, something beautiful, something deep, between earth and gold. Outside the norms, outside the boundaries, subtly unstructured. Other lines. Already old but still young. Landscapes, I dream... stones on which
sometimes lie, think and wander. On a corner of the sky, my mind glides.
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On paper, I put everything, I dress with it, with travel and love.
I flay myself with hatred. A little fear. Black, dark. Beauty, greatness. Soft, subtle whispers. Footsteps, cries, cooing strength and whispers. Colours and thoughts, words and a few broken breaths. The striped torso... feathers flying and hair rising.
Scales waltz and petals dance. Alone, I speak loudly. I speak loudly and dress in paper.
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Let the antics come and go.
It is also, of course, the sudden, the unfinished, the stroke, the uncontrolled gesture.
Their faces painted with the flame of that strangeness in which they have sometimes ceased to believe.
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