To create is to feel anger. It is the fury of your silence, the poison in your stare, and the repetition of one word, one word, one word to keep calm. The noticeable sweat under your arms, accumulating even though your hands are darkened and numbing and your nipples cold and hardened. It is all the same. The ecstasy of making, of combat, of the long, lascivious legs of Monica Vitti, writhing on his bed’s white sheets. The metal bar in every shot, red and disrupting.
It can be a scratch and then later a gouge, or a decisive stab, crisscrossed and melting into a drooping smudge. No style, no nothing, how far can you go without deciding? I switch hands.
It is a document, a catalogue of sorts, my record of this moment. My hands’ heart, flexing its no mind resolve. Your minds hesitation and the stutter of not not deciding, bleeding into the thickened lines of black ink.
This is mine, that is all I know. Something for me to collect and stack in piles or roll into tubes and forget in the corner of my room.
Because I worship the body, the voluptuous curves of your thighs touching and the unexpected punch of your muscular bottom. To see you naked, to see you contort and flex. You are taut and sagging. I want to see your rolls of skin, your crumpled mass of cheek on arm, on fat knee, and peaking nipple, and slump of ass. I ruminate, waiting for the colours to find my hand, purple.
With conviction and a certainty of damage, the generous drips of water mixed with varying quantities of Indian ink, saturate your left leg in its entirety. Your left shoulder and collar bone too, to divide your body: protruding towards me or receding into the wall behind. I wash it away, solid and black, flattened into the background. Your face and now your body in profile.
I stand in front of an easel. I stand with left hand on left hip, contrapposto imbibed. I start with the snaked curve of your spine: from left big toe on your left foot flexed, up to your collar bone hollow. You are ugly today, you are too tall, your limbs too long and out of proportion. I prefer the indifference of old age.