Robert Mapplethorpe, Staircase, 1140 Royal, 1982
The Virgin Suicides (1999)
He hasn’t touched any paper.
Neither have I. We have just ended the discussion without any paper. Without any steady words to keep us close to papers.
It, to write. To talk. To feel a pleasant roughness. And to find a deeper side of his words on the paper or in the spilled ink. He loves blots, you know.
Each rope is breaking.
They are still ropes.
The artist and the imposter.
Let me pick the main?
"Who loves Betty, the untied girl?"
I wanted things that I couldn’t at times articulate. Helen Frankenthaler
David Byrne, photographed by David McGough (1977)
Ma tried to concentrate on a paragraph she skimmed after she discovered the book.
I couldn’t help but stare. She still looked beautiful. And worried. Like I have always known her.
But we were smiling, obviously.
Tove Marika Jansson