YOU ARE THE AUTHOR
OF ALL THESE THINGS
The walking stick, this one, has been through
streams in dark Africa, meadows in the Swiss
Alps. Without compensation, distant men have
walked with it - all those dead Rwandans, holding
on to their dreams and memories. I've stumbled
onto this concrete box filled with bones and skulls.
-
Auction house, Philips, one of those places filled
with promise : I saw the Warhol, and then I saw
the Basquiat. A few lantern lights along a half-seen
room - things that soon will be exposed.
-
Outside of the glass, my feelings are cold and
steely - why do these occurrences stay, and now
now are they balanced against such a simple art?
Mankind is too complicated for this.
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