Hello.
The name’s Isabelle.
Iz-ah-belle.
In my capacity of amateur crypto, these are my scrambled answers to the eggs laid by Agent OE.
Oh-ee.
In the ether we are sharing right now, there is this man.
He speaks to me in stars (1) . As I tumble down wells and dream of Cheshire cats and packs of cards , he learns Polish , Ala Ma Kota (7) . He’s crossed deserts , Hunter S. style, ( 2) pimping dainty words and watching the end of the world.
I wonder if he has money to burn to illustrate Rfid tags ( 5 ) but then again I think I’m totally wrong. Now he’s grown, he loves poetry, with nods to Messrs Betjeman and Larkin and words sprinklesparked from Carol and Lear ( Hughes coiled inside him like an iron spring ) (4) .
He cherry picks words hidden-ripe and I think of twelve dark hot summer nights , as mysterious as Number Stations ( 8 ) .
Like Gunter he writes about the grotesque mixed with the magical and I often wonder if his eyes are a shade of tin-grey that can never see through a blue-eyed type like me. (6)
With him, events appear random, but he’s as precise a writer I know . These things take him time and yet seem to happen before they even have (3) . His links are obscure to my country eyes but in hard boiled nine , I want to see The Waste Land. With its Hurry ups and London streets , Alberts and black bellied rats. But perhaps that’s just way too random (9) .
So, I’m giving myself 5 out of 9 .
” I wouldn’t deny the possibility of either happening ”
( crisp-barked , authoritative, dream breaking )
” well neither would I ”
( shout-silent , inward , broken built)
We talk through walls , it has come to this.
People come and go . Browsing, artfickle lickers bound in the Emperor’s new clothes . Dressed to impress. Lots of oblong specs and clean hands. I look at Davids fuzzed Einstein hair and my bitten grimy nails . His paintings are delicate , like himself, all thin and pale, rice papery frailty and a butterfly wing of iridescence. I don’t think he belongs here. I’m glad his paintings aren’t here. He seems to fade out amongst these loud opinions like a character from a fairy story. He’s writing a book about outsider art but keeps that well hidden as we glug warm wine. ‘I won’t tell anyone till you’re dead !’ I smirk.
The ‘venue’ is fashionably shudder-cool, flickrtastic . Ubiquitous blond wood and obligatory white walls. Sterile. I want to go back to the grimy warmth of the studio with its smells of gesso and safflower and linseed. I look down and see the gossamer of sluts wool clinging to my turn-ups. The tiny silver star I stuck on my face , to cover a little spot, the one we laughed at as he chased me around trying to make me wear a tie , it seems childish now . Or worse still, in here , amongst them, pretentious.
It’s getting crowded. Provincial Jay Joplings and Rachel Campbell Johnstones spout out arty terms. I catch snippets of Context, Juxtaposition, Manifesto and Brutal Honesty. As I stand before a painted jar of peonies, I wonder what colour Brutal Honesty is . It feels purple like a bruise. This is small town Art Week. But still, the tiny stickers , a spot in the right hand corner of a ‘work’, are a badge of honour. They shout, Look At Me I Am Sold ! I begin to feel sorry for the ones left. But there’s too much to see and I’m not one to judge. And yet here I am , looking, judging , albeit internally. I feel sick and suddenly wonder if selling ones paintings is akin to selling ones children.
In a way, the people are more captivating than the art. The art is mainly old school amateur, all fruit bowls and still life but then I can’t see the wood for the trees and the Pinot is grigid, it coats my throat in warm spite. I can see David , a white- grey shock , a bit higher than most , he walks poker backed, arms straight by his sides until they move everywhere when he talks. He looks lost still. Our eyes meet and roll and smile. At least the wine’s free and after five, the taste is secondary . It is going to my head. I like the feeling of invincibility. I begin to imagine Contemporary Free Form Installations and say these words in my head in a late night review Tom Paulin type voice. I’d like to do a chewing gum man on the SOLD stickers, but they are so tiny and now my head is doubling gently.
David stands beside me before a frilly painting of a cat. The painting is entitled ‘Arthur in Forget-Me-Nots ‘. I like the title more than the painting . ” The description of a work is of fundamental importance to its understanding, it gives it a voice ” I say in pissed artsee. I look back at Arthur and he now has four eyes, that’s an improvement too.
When I wake up the next day I remember a dream or did I really see it ? Last night in Art Week. A huge clear box. Empty, but full of air, of course. A printed label to the front read ”Space: The Final Frontier” . I would have called it emptyfull. I mumble to the bathroom and cup water in my hands to drink the wine away. I look in the mirror. I am a portrait framed in driftwood. My hair is natty lumped, my eyes are black Kohl ringed, the tiny silver star has migrated to the tip of my nose. I do a growly-purr, ”You’re a fucking work of art ”.
Help me find a door into summer……take my hand and pull me through.
Into warm air and flowers bright. Sun-soak every pore a tiny heliotrope and watch me smile. Let’s lie down and study intently the greenness of the grass and the moons in your nails. So close, enough to swap breaths and stares, a kaleidoscope of eyes as you fall inside me. A lopsided cyclops as we squint Picasso faces to the sunshine.
A door into summer where we stretch out long and languid . To push away dark thoughts and chase shadows. With you around I can spin fantastic and drop thoughts like pebbles skimmed. And living becomes lighter, easier. The dark time is behind trees, under the cover of leaves. It is inside me. I need to find that door into summer for the smell of warm air and dust in light shafts.
what if
-
( ”Isabelle, you couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery” , Dr Shorter had once barked. But I could dream my way out of the present. ”This is time travel ”, I thought .)
We pretended all the time with what ifs and imagine us and if onlys.
The stars were beautiful , overlapped, too much to take in , we held our breath .
On our backs he clasped my hand. Without looking I saw his sad eyes and felt him trapped .
‘Don’t talk about it’ he breathed .
So we had if onlys , what ifs and imagine us .
That’s all we had.
It was enough.
