Office Again. We're back upstairs, looking at the wall just behind my desk. Maybe you've tired of returning here, this same place, these same views? Or maybe you've entered into the mantra--as I have--where each return, each shift in view, offers another fragment--another possibility--of memory. And it is memory, to be honest--it's memory already. For the moment we step away, all that old world disappears.
Not a bad thing, really, or we'd we burdened with everything everywhere at all times. Forever. Better to be selective about when it happens. Like the locks in the Amsterdam canals, when a long motor barge appears upstream, and the gateman slowly turns his crank to let the waters rise to meet it. The Nederlanders--they engineer such things; they also make them beautiful.
Here the paintings were placed side by side, the way you see them. Not intended as a pair, necessarily, but some things do work together. The bumpy flower allusion (raw sienna, made by Golden--always right) and a woman in a space with a tree. Both emerged--that's the word. In fact, the tree is just the touch of a brush...
The crumpled newspaper. Why still there? It was brought all the way from Barcelona, the wrapping for a small glass souvenir. And why do I need a souvenir, Victor? But he knew--he knew they'd be with me forever.
Berta's drummer, too--also from Spain. Basque in origin... His curious face (a little like Berta's own.) And the one song sheet showing on top. The focus this time is pretty good--I can read it! As in the first line--
You shall be free...
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