i am not that kind of person. you know, one of those “kiss & tell” types that get all worked up over this love affair or that one and have no compunction (no brakes on this runaway car), in fact they have not a care in the world; the only thing they can talk about is how ______ treated them or what ______ did a half hour after they made love (went out for pizza, no less.) you know exactly who i am talking about, now don’t you? they’re always slightly disheveled, with their mismatched socks, (i’d say unshaven, but since that’s a ‘look’ anymore, it’s hard to tell who’s on the rebound and who is not) or their lipstick slightly askew (done while driving in the early morning hours after you discover that he’s left your bed and slipped out the door), but you usually forgive such behaviors because, well, you know, you’re a bit of chatterbox about your love affairs yourself. you like to share, maybe even over share and as mother always said, “what’s good for the goose is good for the goose, darling”, followed by that cackle that always reminds you of the pop pop pop of a .22 when you’re standing out in the cold dawn of a plains state november morning calling out, “pull!” and that fucking clay pigeon shoots up out of the blind and you aim and squeeze that freezing cold trigger and POP! it shatters into a thousand shards and, “pull!” you do it all over again. that laugh. that’s the one.
do you ever weary, though, of their incessant listing of the traits that make this lover so different from all the others that have come before and those that will come in the future? “oh, ____ is such a sweetheart. do you know what he did for me the other day? why, he came home early and made dinner, poured me a glass of wine, drew a bath (on that fine paper you bought him, wink wink) and slowly undressed me and as he took off that piece of clothing that had me all uptight all day long, he laid a little line of kisses down my _____,” of course you don’t.
that is how i am about art. i just can’t keep my mouth shut about it. how it makes me feel, how i love looking at it when it has its head in a book or when it’s standing there at the kitchen sink, that gawd awful electric yellow “eat my grits” apron that you got as a souvenir on a business trip to atlanta tied around its neck while it does the dishes and you look at the curve of its back and how its legs stretch all the way down to the floor and you think (quietly to yourself for once) that you’ve never felt this way before or if you have this time its different, more real somehow, but then just when you think you’ve gotten so settled, it leaves you (as if you had turned your head for just a second because someone had called your name and like that–the snap of your fingers is the sound that you hear), that one lover is gone and the next one is ready to take its place.
you’d be inconsolable if it weren’t for the fact that you’re just walking through your house and stopping if front of this painting or that etching, quietly taking a visual inventory of the art that makes you wilt with amour fou. while you’re struck dumb by the subtleties of _______ by _______, you may close your eyes in reverie for a moment and be transported to that one time at the art institute when you first saw ____________by caillebotte/still/van gogh/botticelli/rembrandt/seurat and had to immediately find a seat for fear of fainting, and then you say to yourself, “no, no, that was at MoMA/SFMoMA/Louvre/d’Orsay/ or that fab museum in M__________ that no one ever went to until calatrava had his way with it (such wanton nip/tuck) and now its a goddam destination, it was that one.”
it’s that kind of love affair that i can’t stop talking about. could you?