السبت، 25 فبراير 2012
The Russian Jewish Painter
I was painting under twenty minutes, including going to the bath to wash the cup and brushes...
Some were painted in my room at night-time.
They were meant to be an obvious mess.
I sought a Russian Jewish painter I couldn't remember, but which the phantom influenced every single piece.
He told me, to find, yellow tones in the window sills under the bad room light, or to water a ultramarine over the windows of the houses opposite which was also standing by an orange street-light, I missed it and mixed a green-blue.
I ran messy brushstrokes in seconds, over the outlines.
The detailed ones were thrown forward by Matisse, but I kept the Naive, prime, going. The Russian _Jewish painter had never had a bad day, the window's plastic outline had to be bold orange.There wasn't a cloud in the sky.
Some, like the edge of the bed, needed, an impressionist contrast and LOTS of detail (like the future 60's model-sister in the Nerina Pallot, Put Your Hands Up, skirt) , so Matisse savoured the prospects, and the primeval kept going.
The boobs have to be shortened.
The straight outlines, in black, that mask and curve and complete each picture, dipped and swerved, and likely "Swore!" The f*** up the whole picture so the Russian, said:
"Leave that for them to ponder, let them hate the missing curves, SPIT! on the only thing that labels this...say, why? why? Why? over and over again, Laugh!!! Mock, the black line, shoving the rest of the art out of the way. I see the black outline 'Should' Be there...that is why I said; No. I didn't want them to win. I wanted you in a little-death. I laughed, when you forgot to complete them....don't worry!!! You can't help it!!"
I ran to the art cinema, near Brick Lane, to sit alone, on mondays, on red velvet chairs, and small old screens...the hope gave two pictures in one afternoon.
"All possible skies...drop it...all distinct mixes and no clouds..."
All the different times.
The RJ painter, grabbed the canvas in his thick hairy hands and shook it. I made tea and half a cup of milk, over and over.
Children kissed the easter-egg building.
The light came on.
It was over.
My eye-sight had become worse than I ever realised.
I sold them clutching a knife and a swagger.
I dropped the french prostitute, and said loneliness can wait. I didn't want to, see, the film. There was too much time. The rj Painter and the kid next me to me, with the kid....he thought the show was wonderful, the cinema was a jewel, there was a drinks bar included. I wanted to skip down Brick Lane, all the cool.
A short back and sides. A little of the hair on top, long and greased over and down. leather lace-up shoes, no socks, very tight jeans, dark blue, wine red. jumpers over cord shirts. Top button clasped.
The boy's fashion.
I bashed against girls over hookah bars, soaked a kingsize under the rain washing through the noodle bar tent...took him into the jewellery shop, where odd old chairs fitted around vintage dirty tables, and got a con coffee, full of foam, only half a cup of milk to drink. Walked past a barber, at the edge of a vinyl shop, cutting a dark boys short back and sides. All in the same house.
"Friggin in the Riggin/Sex Pistols" 5.99 vinyl 45 rpm.
Swastika on the shirt cover.
I prized the art-cinema...I thought of Joy. Throne of Blood, Citizen Kane...
I wanted to bite that I couldn't even level this experiment.
The eyes had faltered so badly.
Why do we hate?
I went for detail in the chair. I wanted to keep the Matisse to a side, save it all for the model, scale down the size of the breasts, when she walked in like that I hummed. Pink cushions, chihuahuas in outfits. Big boobs??
The painter just left me.
He was sitting right here, and I only wanted to know how to spell boobs...She will be like the prettier 1960's version of an Elizabethan Royal, standing proud and tall in pinks and turquoise details for cushions...
The german girl twirled ink pens around outlines, swiggling over outlines, all in a masculine, schizophrenic boys manner, and I stood close to the table, in glasses, and still couldnt see closer, until I got a foot away.
"Perhaps normal people see that way too...."
The German Way:
Their fashion. I've seen it in two girls and a couple. Is; Blazers, school blazers, dark blue and green tartan. Naked legs with boots at the end.
Grunge, is: Pas-Toi...
There are rare, dreadlocked people, in neon bracelets, things hanging off their hemp-made clothing.
Because: It is winter, now.
The RJ Painter, flew out of my stomach here, moments ago, vomiting, he has just disappeared into the floor....
Why do we hate?
Rasta's...showy crusties...there are matted long-haired men...the homeless ones, one-armed Jim, gets on the train, jumping off the stops where there are no workers or ticket tolls, just those computer touchers for magic cards, I have a free rail pass, and a free-house.
"20p please, folks..."
I give him one pound.
I want to give up, this art now.
No-one but me, thought it was wise. I look like a strange loser. It was too naive. Do I have sight a manifesto??
The russian has grown black legs. There's not an ache of religion in him.
I vont get, get, get!
"THEY GET ME!!"
chew on a piece of cold pasta. Ask. Touch a mix of freezing salmon.
Oh, kiss. Kiss, then.