Jennifer Bartlett at the kitchen sink, views over London. A clock in every gridded painting. I remember you from childhood.
End table. Rain journal. A 66-page sleeve of figs.
Fig.271—They were in Sweden, a city in Sweden, with two tickets to hear the classical orchestra play in the concert hall with the beautiful coffered ceilings. When they took their seats, she saw the ceilings. They were beautiful. The orchestra started to play and at some point, somehow, she realized that one of the orchestra’s members had died in his seat. I can’t tell you which instrument he played; I do not know. But he had died, right there, in his seat, while they were playing. She was—not in disbelief. In awe. She had witnessed something very profound, very moving, very beautiful. And, in fact, the music continued shortly after because the conductor announced—a Swedish woman was sitting beside her, and translated his message—that the orchestra member who had died minutes beforehand would have preferred it this way.
John Hartford’s ‘Housing Project.’ Dinner in the Victorian house in the Twilight Zone movie (Every Heart Has A Trapdoor). The Exterminating Angel. James Ensor skeletons at home in pastels.
Carol’s room. Black Sun. Carol in a red scarf on the leather reclining chair. The wheel of fate, which I saw in a dream once, made of touch- smoothed wood, turned by kings, queens and giants.
John Berger’s quetsch plums, which we ate in a tart at KaDeWe.
Glass orb filled with blue, viscous liquid, on a black plastic stand. LOU-ANA hat. Silhouetted woman in the bathroom, painted green, it was the biggest and most obvious clue, which is why I missed it. A good lesson, let’s be honest. It was a yellow Smeg fridge.
Marco’s coin acrobats surfing gesture. Tension-set cent piles. (I love you too, Chucky Change.)
A pressed tin sun earringed with the symbols of world religions, 1988. The beautiful sun shines for all.
On my back in a lightning storm, the most dangerous thing you can do, float on, you razors in the Atlantic, everyone has to live.
What seemed like a forest of crystals and geodes under the window in the sun room on 74th Street. A towel under the water jug to sop up future problems of a minor nature.