"The greatest medicine is the emptiness of everything."
an old friend, a painter, emailed me the other night. she asked if i'd be willing to pose for a project of hers. i'd be a loose interpretation of rodin's "la danaide."
she apologized, wanting to make sure that i wasn't offended by portraying a woman damned for eternity to pour water through a broken jug. i wasn't. language is effectively a broken jug, and so is memory. if everything was perfect, (the underlying word here is "pleroma"), there would be no pouring, no fatigue, no contortion of the shoulder-muscles, no taser-sting to keep things interesting. it's this breach that interests me, the inescapable and often paradoxically ecstatic sense of loss involved with memory (nostalgia) language (silence, incomprehensibility, irony) time (eternity)...so here i am claiming my status as une des danaides, and this will hopefully be the place to mix up the medicine from what's left clinging to the jug once the water has all run from the wrong end.
1 comment:
bienvenue! i'd rather be that, i think, than sisyphe!
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