Monday, December 13, 2010
We Have Done the Things that Whores and Painters Do
Close your eyes; I'm alive in your dreams, back in Paris before the war. I am an artist and you are the whore in my painting. Just a whore though, not less, not yet. I have captured your secret on the canvas and you have taken me in ways that we will both surely remember and laugh about. My name for you is "Petits Four" and that is ironic now. I am a Jew.
For days and hours I was consumed by your incredible aesthetic symmetry, my brush refusing to perfect your delicate proportions. Then, gradually and carefully, I unveiled the turmoil and the lust that scratched at your skin from the inside. You were a beast and we were beasts together and you were naked and raw like nobody or nothing that had posed for me before. I painted quickly and honestly until you and I were finished.
Then, I could no longer hold your hand or look at you in your face. My eyes were infected, senses numbed. I took what I needed and left you in a splendid and chaotic heap. Now I am here, in your dreams, to tell you I am sorry.
And when my time is death I bid that you return to my dreams and apologize also. To be who we were, in Paris before the war, is all that I desire. Speak and I will forgive you for laying down, for whispering my name or shouting it in the ears of Le Bosch while you were doing unspeakable other things to their bodies. You were a whore and I was a painter. We have done the things that whores and painters do.