lolie
07-20-2008, 03:04 PM
sorry if my english is not very precise and correct...and if i posted the text in a wrong place
'Your memory gleams in me as a monstrane ‘
Seven years…
Seven years already that you had left.
Seven years…An eternity.
One day you had flown away, leaving a simple note scrawled on a vulgar scrap of paper " Love is a nasty and dirty job, impossible to keep the hands clean ".
I remember having remained prostrate during several days, uncredulous. Why in me, so unfairly vanished?
Why these words, which were not moreover even yours?
Shortly before you disappeared, I had offered you a book of Hanif Kureishi, entitled « Intimacy ».
A beautiful and commonplace story; that of a man who decides to leave his wife..
These words, that you seemed to have copied out hastily, of an hesitating writing, were in a sense the conclusion of the book.
But you, what did you meant ?
In that time, I was still believing in a brilliant future, I was what we call an artist. We lived in Rome where a friend had lent me a workshop for some months.
I was used to say that I had two Loves: You and the painting.
I was spending my time drawing you, painting you.
You fascinated me.
You… lascivious, secret, charmingly immoral and a little bit crazy creature; you were my Muse …
Strange love that our intimate and fleeting agreement.
I called you my injured bird, hinting at this great look of freedom and independance which characterized you but also at this anxiety which I perceived in your eyes when I was observing you in secret.
I had always believed that each artistical work contains a mystery which we like without knowing it and the same happened with certain people, certain faces.
The Mystery …
That is what your eyes and the idea that I had about the Art had in common with the Dream..
You had such a particular way of standing up in front of the window. I sketched then endlessly the curve of your shoulder, the oval of your face.
And relentlessly, it is this mystery, mixture of sadness and great freedom that I tried to restore, but I never achieved it … On the paintings, your eyes were not alive…
Sometimes, I said to myself that I would have to turn most rather to the photography; with a lens, maybe I would have been able to get these moments?
But how can we give an image of the Mystery, how can we give an image of the Freedom?
I had lived some months of tremendous passion, I had never painted so much, until the day you disappeared.
One week had been necessary to find your body, or rather what was remaining of it.
Suicide…that ’s what they said to me.
So you were dead, your free wings broken, and this death was going to stay in me, gaping as a hole.
I had packed my things hastily and had got back to Paris. I was not convinced of your death, not even that this body could be yours, but you had disappeared , what meant finally the same to me.
I do not remember where I had read that the deads are faithful to the appeal of the alive people, but of which indecisive presence are they ...
We had buried you in the cemetery of the Pere Lachaise, because you loved this place where statues and wandering cats were used to speak to each other silently.
It was a gloomy day, the wind was sweeping the graves.
I leaned against one of these inumerable stony angels and silently I cried.
Everything changed that day, just remained an heavy and black sky and the silence.
That day there, the artist that I wanted to be, that I believed to be, disappeared with you in the grave.
You were my one and only source of inspiration, then how continue without you?
Your death having taken hostage me, I decided not to produce any more; a strange way to make of the resistance and I abandoned my paintings, drawings, colors and paintbrushes ......
You had left me at the bottom of the abyss…
As if I was the survivor of an invisible war to the eyes of the other people, I roamed apathetic, lost, without envies, without desires, sometimes clearing me a road between the rubbles of my memory, letting the everyday life carrying me, one day after the other one, without knowing neither where, nor on whom or on what I could take support. My most crazy dreams gave way to the soul ‘s bruises.
But how is it possible to anaesthetize the pain and is it possible to live aimless?
Since seven years already, I live in a small town of the parisian suburb, every day I take the train, at the same time, to go to the same district and make the same badly paid work.
Every day the same stupid running. Every day the nose skimed to the ground level of that senseless life.
I settled down in this routine, without reflecting; and to be honnest, I do not think any more since seven years…
I just try to empty my mind, I try not to be that mainspring any more , I don t want to be this motor anymore, which turns and turns, that is necessary to let turn…
Seven years that I take the same train, slumped on the seat, drowsy, tuning my thoughts to the railroad rhythm..
As usual, I was listening absent-mindedly to the conversation of my neighbours : " Seven is a sacred figure " one of them exclaimed.
It is surprising, as sometimes the most evident things seem to be invisible to us, as if certain connections were impossible to do, we simply don t make the link.
My spirit was wandering and to spend the time, I decided to list all the « seven » that I knew: 7 days of the week, 7 major sins, 7 cardinal virtues, 7 world wonders, 7 archangels, 7 indian shakras , 7 dwarfs, the boots of 7 places, when suddenly and unexpectedly your face worked its way into my mind with blinding clarity.
I remembered that your two favorite movies were:« the seventh seal « from Ingmar Bergman and « The seven year itch » from Billy wilder.
Seven years…
Seven years already that you had disappeared …
It is only then that I saw her entering the compartment.
It is only then that I saw you.
I swayed like I had got vertigo, I felt I was about to faint.
At first I did not believe in it … It was not possible, you were dead..
I was hypnotized by her profile.
She stood up there, next to the window of the wagon, the eyes lost in the vagueness.
My heart was throbbing wildly.
This neck, this soft and pearly skin, these hair fastened in an anarchic and muddled way, the curve of these lashes, the pout of this mouth… everything was identical …
I was tetanized.
What should I do ?
Approach her ?
Follow her maybe?
Suddenly she turned round; her tender glance crossed mine, and she got off the train.
All day long I thought only of you, I thought only of her.
Would I meet her again ?
It s that same day, in the evening, that shyly I took up my pencils, my canvas and my paintbrushes.
I was inspired again.
Finally, I had never believed in this interlude, in this life in slow motion, in these years in brackets.
This first night after having met her, I did not slept.
I ‘ve spent hours drawing her, drawing you, sketching the outlines of her body, her face, as I had kept them in my memory.
And so did I do, all the following nights…
Every day, at the same time, she was getting on the same compartment, stood in the same place, next to the window, her eyes so mysterious, sad and nevertheless so free.
Every day, her glance where I read the immortality were crossing mine, as if she was questioning me with anxiety.
Every day, I was trying to talk to her, but no sound was coming out of my mouth.
And every night, I drew her, I painted her and every morning I destroyed my sketches and slashed my canvas.
Seven years had passed by and I still stumbled against the same difficulty, I didn t manage to restore the mystery, this independance and this freedom in her eyes, in your eyes.
Till this memorable night.
Once more after multiple attempts , I had destroyed my canvas and my sketches, I had drunk a lot , too much, and discouraged I decided to give up.
It s precisely at this moment that you appeared to me, in the middle of my messy room.
You were floating above the ground , as if you were enveloped in a dress made of ether and your eyes seemed to say to me "try again", then you disappeared.
I believed at first that it was an hallucination, once more one of my ethylic delirium maybe? But nevertheless an unknown power urged me to go back to work.
I have painted during hours, as obeying to a necessity which imposed itself upon me.
When I finally came out this frenetic drive of creativity, the sun was already high in the sky and the painting was finished.
As if the canvas was alive , you were there looking at me with casualness.
Finally, I had succeeded.
I couldn t believe it.
How I had been able to carry out such a masterpiece ?
It is a mystery …
I was exhausted and as I was about to let myself go in the arms of Morpheus, I realized the state of my clothes and of my hands dirtied with colors. I remembered then the lines you had left before leaving:« Love is a dirty and nasty job, it’s impossible to keep the hands clean ».
Suddenly I understood.
So it was it …
As in an awake dream, it then seemed to me that I saw the face of an angel with a mischievous smile.
I felt asleep.
That day , I did not go to work.
Pushed by an unknown power, I called some people I knew in the Art community . I went to see some old acquintances to present them my unic painting.
They were all fascinated and encouraged me to produce more for a future exhibition.
Carried by this new momentum, I would have almost forgotten the unknown girl of the suburban train.
Who was she and why did she look like you so much?
I decided to clarify the situation and to talk to her as soon as I shall see her again.
And moreover, my victory returned to her partially, I had then to talk to her.
So, the next days, I took the same train again and again, looking for her,watching out for her silhouette, but she was not there anymore.
I never saw her again.
I have been working relentlessly, the exhibition will take place in some days.
I know now what I have to do, , and it is to you that I owe it.
Is not any creation the consequence of the fear of the death?
To create, to try to see farther, to try to save something which will continue maybe beyond us?
To paint, to give our selves the illusion that we may escape the last macabre dance ?
Often, people asks me who is my model, where does she come from?
I never answer.
Who were you, who was she?
Do I know it ?
Even today I wonder.
Was she real?
Was she the fruit of my imagination?
Was she a gift of the Providence?
An angel maybe?
From time to time I still take a walk in the cemetery of the Pere Lachaise, I stay a moment next to your grave and I wipe the dust and the twigs which regularly recover your name.
And, invariably, I hear the singing of this derisive nightingale who seems to say to me that you are finally free !
The story of our lives is often made by unforeseen epilogues
'Your memory gleams in me as a monstrane ‘
Seven years…
Seven years already that you had left.
Seven years…An eternity.
One day you had flown away, leaving a simple note scrawled on a vulgar scrap of paper " Love is a nasty and dirty job, impossible to keep the hands clean ".
I remember having remained prostrate during several days, uncredulous. Why in me, so unfairly vanished?
Why these words, which were not moreover even yours?
Shortly before you disappeared, I had offered you a book of Hanif Kureishi, entitled « Intimacy ».
A beautiful and commonplace story; that of a man who decides to leave his wife..
These words, that you seemed to have copied out hastily, of an hesitating writing, were in a sense the conclusion of the book.
But you, what did you meant ?
In that time, I was still believing in a brilliant future, I was what we call an artist. We lived in Rome where a friend had lent me a workshop for some months.
I was used to say that I had two Loves: You and the painting.
I was spending my time drawing you, painting you.
You fascinated me.
You… lascivious, secret, charmingly immoral and a little bit crazy creature; you were my Muse …
Strange love that our intimate and fleeting agreement.
I called you my injured bird, hinting at this great look of freedom and independance which characterized you but also at this anxiety which I perceived in your eyes when I was observing you in secret.
I had always believed that each artistical work contains a mystery which we like without knowing it and the same happened with certain people, certain faces.
The Mystery …
That is what your eyes and the idea that I had about the Art had in common with the Dream..
You had such a particular way of standing up in front of the window. I sketched then endlessly the curve of your shoulder, the oval of your face.
And relentlessly, it is this mystery, mixture of sadness and great freedom that I tried to restore, but I never achieved it … On the paintings, your eyes were not alive…
Sometimes, I said to myself that I would have to turn most rather to the photography; with a lens, maybe I would have been able to get these moments?
But how can we give an image of the Mystery, how can we give an image of the Freedom?
I had lived some months of tremendous passion, I had never painted so much, until the day you disappeared.
One week had been necessary to find your body, or rather what was remaining of it.
Suicide…that ’s what they said to me.
So you were dead, your free wings broken, and this death was going to stay in me, gaping as a hole.
I had packed my things hastily and had got back to Paris. I was not convinced of your death, not even that this body could be yours, but you had disappeared , what meant finally the same to me.
I do not remember where I had read that the deads are faithful to the appeal of the alive people, but of which indecisive presence are they ...
We had buried you in the cemetery of the Pere Lachaise, because you loved this place where statues and wandering cats were used to speak to each other silently.
It was a gloomy day, the wind was sweeping the graves.
I leaned against one of these inumerable stony angels and silently I cried.
Everything changed that day, just remained an heavy and black sky and the silence.
That day there, the artist that I wanted to be, that I believed to be, disappeared with you in the grave.
You were my one and only source of inspiration, then how continue without you?
Your death having taken hostage me, I decided not to produce any more; a strange way to make of the resistance and I abandoned my paintings, drawings, colors and paintbrushes ......
You had left me at the bottom of the abyss…
As if I was the survivor of an invisible war to the eyes of the other people, I roamed apathetic, lost, without envies, without desires, sometimes clearing me a road between the rubbles of my memory, letting the everyday life carrying me, one day after the other one, without knowing neither where, nor on whom or on what I could take support. My most crazy dreams gave way to the soul ‘s bruises.
But how is it possible to anaesthetize the pain and is it possible to live aimless?
Since seven years already, I live in a small town of the parisian suburb, every day I take the train, at the same time, to go to the same district and make the same badly paid work.
Every day the same stupid running. Every day the nose skimed to the ground level of that senseless life.
I settled down in this routine, without reflecting; and to be honnest, I do not think any more since seven years…
I just try to empty my mind, I try not to be that mainspring any more , I don t want to be this motor anymore, which turns and turns, that is necessary to let turn…
Seven years that I take the same train, slumped on the seat, drowsy, tuning my thoughts to the railroad rhythm..
As usual, I was listening absent-mindedly to the conversation of my neighbours : " Seven is a sacred figure " one of them exclaimed.
It is surprising, as sometimes the most evident things seem to be invisible to us, as if certain connections were impossible to do, we simply don t make the link.
My spirit was wandering and to spend the time, I decided to list all the « seven » that I knew: 7 days of the week, 7 major sins, 7 cardinal virtues, 7 world wonders, 7 archangels, 7 indian shakras , 7 dwarfs, the boots of 7 places, when suddenly and unexpectedly your face worked its way into my mind with blinding clarity.
I remembered that your two favorite movies were:« the seventh seal « from Ingmar Bergman and « The seven year itch » from Billy wilder.
Seven years…
Seven years already that you had disappeared …
It is only then that I saw her entering the compartment.
It is only then that I saw you.
I swayed like I had got vertigo, I felt I was about to faint.
At first I did not believe in it … It was not possible, you were dead..
I was hypnotized by her profile.
She stood up there, next to the window of the wagon, the eyes lost in the vagueness.
My heart was throbbing wildly.
This neck, this soft and pearly skin, these hair fastened in an anarchic and muddled way, the curve of these lashes, the pout of this mouth… everything was identical …
I was tetanized.
What should I do ?
Approach her ?
Follow her maybe?
Suddenly she turned round; her tender glance crossed mine, and she got off the train.
All day long I thought only of you, I thought only of her.
Would I meet her again ?
It s that same day, in the evening, that shyly I took up my pencils, my canvas and my paintbrushes.
I was inspired again.
Finally, I had never believed in this interlude, in this life in slow motion, in these years in brackets.
This first night after having met her, I did not slept.
I ‘ve spent hours drawing her, drawing you, sketching the outlines of her body, her face, as I had kept them in my memory.
And so did I do, all the following nights…
Every day, at the same time, she was getting on the same compartment, stood in the same place, next to the window, her eyes so mysterious, sad and nevertheless so free.
Every day, her glance where I read the immortality were crossing mine, as if she was questioning me with anxiety.
Every day, I was trying to talk to her, but no sound was coming out of my mouth.
And every night, I drew her, I painted her and every morning I destroyed my sketches and slashed my canvas.
Seven years had passed by and I still stumbled against the same difficulty, I didn t manage to restore the mystery, this independance and this freedom in her eyes, in your eyes.
Till this memorable night.
Once more after multiple attempts , I had destroyed my canvas and my sketches, I had drunk a lot , too much, and discouraged I decided to give up.
It s precisely at this moment that you appeared to me, in the middle of my messy room.
You were floating above the ground , as if you were enveloped in a dress made of ether and your eyes seemed to say to me "try again", then you disappeared.
I believed at first that it was an hallucination, once more one of my ethylic delirium maybe? But nevertheless an unknown power urged me to go back to work.
I have painted during hours, as obeying to a necessity which imposed itself upon me.
When I finally came out this frenetic drive of creativity, the sun was already high in the sky and the painting was finished.
As if the canvas was alive , you were there looking at me with casualness.
Finally, I had succeeded.
I couldn t believe it.
How I had been able to carry out such a masterpiece ?
It is a mystery …
I was exhausted and as I was about to let myself go in the arms of Morpheus, I realized the state of my clothes and of my hands dirtied with colors. I remembered then the lines you had left before leaving:« Love is a dirty and nasty job, it’s impossible to keep the hands clean ».
Suddenly I understood.
So it was it …
As in an awake dream, it then seemed to me that I saw the face of an angel with a mischievous smile.
I felt asleep.
That day , I did not go to work.
Pushed by an unknown power, I called some people I knew in the Art community . I went to see some old acquintances to present them my unic painting.
They were all fascinated and encouraged me to produce more for a future exhibition.
Carried by this new momentum, I would have almost forgotten the unknown girl of the suburban train.
Who was she and why did she look like you so much?
I decided to clarify the situation and to talk to her as soon as I shall see her again.
And moreover, my victory returned to her partially, I had then to talk to her.
So, the next days, I took the same train again and again, looking for her,watching out for her silhouette, but she was not there anymore.
I never saw her again.
I have been working relentlessly, the exhibition will take place in some days.
I know now what I have to do, , and it is to you that I owe it.
Is not any creation the consequence of the fear of the death?
To create, to try to see farther, to try to save something which will continue maybe beyond us?
To paint, to give our selves the illusion that we may escape the last macabre dance ?
Often, people asks me who is my model, where does she come from?
I never answer.
Who were you, who was she?
Do I know it ?
Even today I wonder.
Was she real?
Was she the fruit of my imagination?
Was she a gift of the Providence?
An angel maybe?
From time to time I still take a walk in the cemetery of the Pere Lachaise, I stay a moment next to your grave and I wipe the dust and the twigs which regularly recover your name.
And, invariably, I hear the singing of this derisive nightingale who seems to say to me that you are finally free !
The story of our lives is often made by unforeseen epilogues