I once sent you two little pictures I made,
I was in the series of little pictures because I felt little, like the world
was a big dangerous space, each venture out was into a big wild and dangerous world, a reckless
adventure. Which I guess it was in those strange days. I liked this idea that
little things could be my totems and talismans , the magic stones, the little
pictures, my storm troopers, soft felt bags of jewels I wouldn’t bother
wearing, little books of Oscar Wilde quotes.
The little pictures were a new paradigm for
me, I used to be into giant open canvasses, tabula rasas of life upon which I
could imprint myself, things where at the end of a session my body, bikini, sunnies, coffee, courtyard,
face, garden and anyone who dropped by would be covered in paint and glitter.
The little pictures started the day
Wolfgang dropped by, he wanted to meet me for
the first time and I was falling to bits. He knew about the Lover but he had romanticized
me somehow, had imagined me into a thousand things, I could see it on his face,
and there in the Tuesday Cottesloe sun as I placed jewels and sequins into
blood red paint I was darker than the brightly lit girl in all the pictures he
had stared at on the wall when staying in my house, listening to my music,
reading my random instructions about rock salt lamps, my journals by the bed
perhaps?
I made two little paintings that I liked a
lot and wanted to send them to you.
‘If I showed you my soul, would you know it?”
I asked.
“You
already did”.
So don’t tell me we are not friends,
because I thought we were. I show you as much as I am able to, and I’m heaps
healthier and happier now, so its all good anyways right?
I want to stop this. I don’t want it to be
about how tangled I am anymore. I just want us to be friends again like we
were, to talk about the important stuff, to be brutally honest and kind, the hallmarks of rainbow room, my safe place.
