A loveletter
Out from the grey we stepped into the white. Jarman said white lies, just like the virgin brides who’ve actually spread their legs many a time. However in here we were engulfed in nothing but truth. Hodgkin squares lined the walls, small portals to other lands. One zinged with lime against a zealous black. Jodie’s there right now. How I wish I could go and nourish her, kiss her forehead and make her laugh till wee comes out. But unfortunately the aggressive parameters of annual leave and dwindling savings forbid it. At least the warmth of this square connects her to me more than an iphone ever could. In here I can spread my arms to the other side of the world and touch her face.
I trip through valiant blues and courageous greens, arriving at red. Jarman holds my hand. Red is life. As my eyes are lost my ears pull me back into the room. Hodgkin's lover waxes lyrical tales of failed relationships with other museums, announcing this could be the last time we’re allowed to be here, in this corner of Bloomsbury. I just desperately want to get this man into the public house across the road
A S A P. Buy a bottle of Rosé, which I’ve never done in such a place and let him treat my ears to his sweet, sugary secrets.
“Forgive me for the twee question, but do you have a favourite Howard piece?”
His cheeks are a pale shade of cherry and he raises his brows warmly.
I’ve mused Howard's lover.
I’ve mused Howard's lover.
“Sontag once said great art doesn’t need any words, and I am a words man. When I look at ‘Venice Grey Water’ I lose all words. That painting has no words.”
I turn around to meet dad’s eyes sparkling in the same way when he’s watching Nick Kowles’ DIY: SOS.
Time slips and we’re ushered to leave, but not without perusing the merch table. I hesitate at a Bombay print and think of Jodie, alone amongst the billions. My one in a million. No. An Amex will only get you so far in this life.
The ushering has become escorting. I look back, eagerly clutching everything in my retina forever. We shuffle outside, leaving the technicolour treasures, back into the grey.
I trip through valiant blues and courageous greens, arriving at red. Jarman holds my hand. Red is life. As my eyes are lost my ears pull me back into the room. Hodgkin's lover waxes lyrical tales of failed relationships with other museums, announcing this could be the last time we’re allowed to be here, in this corner of Bloomsbury. I just desperately want to get this man into the public house across the road
A S A P. Buy a bottle of Rosé, which I’ve never done in such a place and let him treat my ears to his sweet, sugary secrets.
“Forgive me for the twee question, but do you have a favourite Howard piece?”
His cheeks are a pale shade of cherry and he raises his brows warmly.
I’ve mused Howard's lover.
I’ve mused Howard's lover.
“Sontag once said great art doesn’t need any words, and I am a words man. When I look at ‘Venice Grey Water’ I lose all words. That painting has no words.”
I turn around to meet dad’s eyes sparkling in the same way when he’s watching Nick Kowles’ DIY: SOS.
Time slips and we’re ushered to leave, but not without perusing the merch table. I hesitate at a Bombay print and think of Jodie, alone amongst the billions. My one in a million. No. An Amex will only get you so far in this life.
The ushering has become escorting. I look back, eagerly clutching everything in my retina forever. We shuffle outside, leaving the technicolour treasures, back into the grey.