Leda and the Swan, 2019
I thought we could draw together. You instructed me to draw crying figures and obliterated their eyes and mouths. You were maybe trying to imitate my gestures, or just enjoying the act of defacement. Perhaps you were healing their sorrow. Now your beloved cat is dead, and I wish I could bring it back. I thought we could have a pleasurable experience, but we also had a hard time. I thought we could learn a thing or two, but I couldn’t praise you enough. I thought we could draw inspiration from each other, but I didn’t turn out to be a good model. I thought we could share stories, but mine were not terrific. I thought we could overcome every physical, temporal and formal limitation, but then I projected onto you my infantile frustrations as if you were able to redeem them. I thought we could set rules only to break them, to see if new ideas would spring from that. But this is adult stuff, not something you needed to be concerned about. I thought I got it, but I was wrong. You are time. You are the present, the past and the future. You are family. You are the material. You are work, at home, in the studio, and on the street. You are the content, the context, the mode of production. You are a resource. You are my limit. You are my thumb stone. You are the continuation. You are yourself. You are the everyday. A censor. A mirror. You are my assistant, the reason to improve, a perspective. You are my audience. You are the unmonumental, a sense of ordinary, the insane normality. You survived the swan and the octopus, the needles and the bullets. You are my heroine.
See also:
- Leda and the Swan, 2019