7. nóv. 2015

A poem about the art of standing in a gallery

Erased, faded, unblemished, I’m sorry, but I meant to stand here and not become the art work. Don’t mind me, I just meant to stand here in solitary and not have anything to do with anything, I’m sorry, but I just wanna be alone right now. 

I’m sorry, but I refuse to have the art move me. It is extremely sensitive to changes in temperature and I am cold made flesh. It costs fortunes to move. All the cash in an empire of perfume. And I just wish to stand still. Erased. I wish to remain unblemished. Untouched. 

I’m sorry but watercolour runs, it flows, it fills, it will not be controlled, checked, I’ve tried and it’s true. And therefore I just wish to stand here and contemplate, I just wish to feel the insides of my pockets while inside the exhibition hall the art – I am sure – rages.  

I’m sorry, but I just meant to stand here and not become a part of the collectors hedonism, not become a part of the museums legacy, not be affiliated with a watercolour whose strokes I never stroked, whose meaning I never meant, whose collector I still don’t recollect, whose curator is apparently sorry, well we’re all sorry now, and I wish I was alone, I wish I was dead and there were no watercolours of would-be Taliban in the museum, no watercolours of sinister mice, no untitled watercolours, none of the above.  

I’m sorry, but do you feel moved? Do you feel sorry? And if so, what makes you sorry? Were you more moved by Florence – or was it Daniel who made you sad? Was it the would-be Taliban or the crazy little mice? Did they make you laugh? On a scale from one to ten, how much did they make you laugh? Just ha ha, or was it a deeper laugh, more bass than treble, more substance than sound?

I’m sorry, but am I truly sorry? I just wish to stand here and not become colourful, not become drenched, not become filled in, unchecked or blemished, feeling the insides of my pockets, contemplating the vast sums of money flowing through these rooms, unchecked, blemished, bothersome; I just wish to stand here and not become sepia, black and white, not become calligraphic, nailed or hung; I just wish to stand here pretending I don’t have a price tag. 
As if anything came without a price tag. 

I confess, this is my price tag: feeling sorry, feeling blemished, moved, feeling alone, abandoned, feeling crowded; I wish to get paid in destitution, lonesomeness, a european civil war, and the inescapable death of the art world, a market gone mad, as if it ever were otherwise. I wish to get paid in vile reviews, public floggings and rage. I’m sorry, but am I truly sorry?

Bring me the head of every artist hung, bring me their bleeding hearts, the cirrhosis of their livers and the sweat of their brows; bring me their hardons, their hairdos and harelips; bring me their childhood heroes, their dreams, ambitions and vile reviews; I will assemble their anti-CV’s, I will conduct their downfall in symphonic movements, I will deconstruct their narcissistic tendencies and make myself a wholesome career of it, I will get fat, I will get complacent and I will remain sorry, truly sorry. 

I’m not truly sorry about Daniel, but I’m truly sorry about Florence. I care for innocent bystanders. I’m not sorry for Florence, I’m sorry for Daniel. I care for those steamrolled by history. Daniel and Florence are sorry about everything. They would like to convey their apologies. I’m just sorry to be a vessel, to be hanging, I’m sorry I became the art work, half-finished, unwritten, hung and apologised. This is not the art. This is not the payment. The payment is forthcoming along with the travel costs. This is just a text, it has nothing to do with the art work. 

I am told that even the museum offends. I am told that the art does not offend but the museum, the museum offends. The art world does not offend, and the markets literally rejoice. I am told the collectors don’t offend but sometimes the artists are unfriendly. This is lamentable. I am sorry. I am sorry anyone is ever unfriendly, it is a horrible state of being. I am sorry the artists are lamentable, I am sorry the watercolours are transparent, I am sorry the fiscal transactions are not visible. I am as sorry for straight lines as I am for crooked ones. I am sorry for the water outside, the ateliers and the wonderful restaurant in the hall. None of this could’ve been prevented, the wheels of history were already in motion, the steamrollers. 

All I wanted was to stand here. All I wanted was to soar, alone, disappear into the water, into the color, take the watercolours into the unbuilt sauna and sweat it out, peel of the facades and become the canvas, something as yet unhappened, something erased, faded, something still in the process of unhappening, fading in the cold and the heat, fading in the humidity, the humility, while the markets crumble and everything including the frames encasing everything becomes an endless spiral of death, death, death and death. 

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