So, I went to The Met to say Good-Bye;
Not the Final Good-Bye, but to begin a sort of 'Long Good-Bye';
I am leaving.
Soon.
I think.
I hope.
And I must pay tribute to the tribute I will leave behind;
I will return.
Soon.
I think.
I hope.
You, who's eyes look away as much as they look towards;
You, who rolled carpet;
You, who will not follow, for fear of leading;
and
They, who owe me for what they no longer have;
Will come with me for "as if it was a purse" it is ready for travel;
And I;
As I do;
Live with the over-the-shoulder-flicked: "No Good-Byes!".
But
That which is unchanging - if not for mood of light;
That which enters from the 'six inches in front of your face';
And stays visual not animate;
That, we say Good-Bye to.
If I choose;
And I do.
Look, the bottom line is, that the Dribble above probably wont make that much sense. To you. It does to me, cause I know The Key to unlocking it's meaning. I will read it back knowing that it is Fiction simply spiced with Reality. You, who does not make sense of it, will ignore the Fiction, attach your procedure of Logic to the Reality part - because it is familiar to you - and will not be able to see the forest for the trees.
Too bad.
For if you could understand it like I, you would see it for the Dribble it is.....
All therapy lies in the process - the complete process - so the Subway ride uptown is where it begins for me. Underground trains and I have had a fractious relationship over the years, but they have always brought me upon another story and this forgives all their misdeeds. One pops back above-ground few blocks east of The Park and must walk past toy stores, street vendors, the elderly in Parisian Brown fur and the hotel job I never did take. This utility of traverse is perhaps best endowed with purpose and if one uses the time it consumes to select the appropriate album on the iPod to soundtrack the visit itself, such purpose will be achieved. Cross 5th and gallop up those off-grey steps, suggest your own 'Suggested Admission' and in you go.
I usually head straight to the elevator and up to the south side of the building. I like to start where I know I will end. Pissarro. Always Pissarro, right after a second dose of Monet. Do you know you can just hang out with those guys here in this City? Not quite for free, but pretty Gosh-Darn close! Just step back, glaze the eyes and get lost in a forgetting peace. Soothe the disappointment and reset expectation and clear theory for beauty and just...
Fuck!
Fuck!!
Fucken Spanish tourists with their iPhones and silver cameras, cutting across in front me to take an instant snap and then silently move on to the next picture they feel they should recognise. What the fuck are you doing? I don't understand. Is this all part of a dance that ends with you back at the hotel, immediately uploading these photos onto Facebook or Flickr or email and inflicting Miguel or Alberto or Carmen with pangs of jealousy at the heights of your Middle Class life, as they receive them on their smart-phones, whilst sipping sherry and slinging back jamon? Or is it that you love the picture in front of you so much, that rather than actually spend time with it in the 'canvas flesh', you'd much rather capture it permanently on a carry around object, so that you may spend hours, at some other allotted time, just staring into it?
Either way, either way Consuela, you don't need to step in front of me! I am an old-before-my-time-man, with a penchant for extraordinary heights of grumpiness. Do not inflame! If you want to show off to the Tapas-Set back home, why not take the photo from behind me? Showing other tourists in the shot will not temper the effect. And if it is that you genuinely want your own record of the picture itself, just go online you silly fool. A simple scroll down this very blog, will alert you to the fact that one can find reproductions of any art you desire on the World Wide Thing that would far outshine in quality, the pithy little blurry images on your phone.
I'm just saying....
Anyways, there was a point and I'll get back to it:
Yesterday I got particularly lost in front of several Modigliani's. There's a few obvious (and a few more less so) reasons for this occurring, but (as I continue to tell you over and over again) I'm not here to talk in Realities, so today I will talk of it's mortal enemy - Myth.
The brand of Myth that follows the memory this Jewish Man from Italy, is my favourite type, for it actually began and flourished whilst he was still alive. So many Myths about figures of history, where constructs constructed by those left behind by their departure from this world. The number one example of thus, would be the one created around some ancient dude from Nazareth who used to work with wood, but the lesser examples across time also rankle me. Always, truth is so much interesting/effective/dramatic/inspiring/etc than fiction and the hijacking of Reality mutes, clouds, erodes and then erases the better story.
However, the Myth that begins whilst the subject in question is still around to either deny, encourage or otherwise it's growth, becomes part of the story of his life. The Myth is part of his Reality and therefore, whether grandiosely fictitious or partly inspired by actual events or entirely and perfectly accurate or just complete bullshit, The Myth itself, as an entity, become Non-Fictitious.
Now, all these Capitalised Nouns above may have seemed a little lecturous (not a word, but so should be), so let me give you an example of what I speak of:
Robert Johnson was said to have sold his soul to the devil in exchange for a searing quality to his Blues playing and singing. He never denied this in his short lifetime and infact wrote a couple of songs suggesting that it may have actually happened. He participated in his Myth and today that Myth is part of his Real story.
Another?
Orson Wells career in acting began when he turned up as an impoverished painter in Dublin, after a holiday jaunt across Ireland and convinced a theatre director that he was actually a massive Broadway star back in his native New York. Now this myth, was actually started by the man himself. In this particular case, both Orson and the theater director himself were around to either deny or confirm the exact accuracy of the chain of events (I'll give you one guess as to which one of those two proclaimed that the part was actually awarded on the strength of an audition and not some cock-and-bull story...), so The Myth, whether true or not, became and becomes key to drawing the picture of the character of one of THE great characters of the last century.
Starting to understand what I mean? I hope so, cause the next example would have had to have been about Chopper Read and I have no interest in writing about that fellow - he has written enough about his own Myths.
The Myths about Modigliani, that began during is short stay on this planet, relates to his excessive consumption of drink and drugs. They say - and he allowed them to - that he could only achieve his particular ability to jarringly capture the viewer, with ostensibly (great word that actually is a word) simple portraits, was when he was totally off his head. Whilst sober, he was just plainly effective, but once obliterating as much conscious anchoring to this here plane of existence, he found the tools to operate in the way that, today, he is famous for. He knew that continuance of his daily dose would surely one day kill him, but he aimed to burn out fast and bright and was prepared to pay the ultimate sacrifice for all of us (and that includes little Miss Uni-Brow over there and her camera-phone).
Very Rock & Roll. Essentially, it's the Hendrix story, but with less burning guitars and more Tuberculosis.
So that was Modigliani's Myth. It may have been true. He may have simply painted 'better' when fucked up. Or, this may have been just the romantacised retelling of his more grubbier, more destructive, more irresponsible, more escapist, more dishonest practices - The Myth as justification.
It doesn't matter though how true it is, for ultimately it is The Myth that won out. It was started in his lifetime and it lived beyond his grave. It started with him and carries on with me and you and Miguel flicking through Facebook back in Barcelona. All we have left of Amedeo 'Modi' Modigliani is a few sculptures, an amazing collection of paintings and a whole bunch of gaps in between.
