There is another world, but it is in this one.

Paul Eluard. Œuvres complètes, vol. 1, Gallimard, 1968.

Sunday, October 28, 2018

Selfie of the Marquis de Sade

"This is the one. Quick, take my picture in front of it."

My sister was clocking the gallery.

"Where the hell did Cooper and Francesca get to?"

I gestured to her with my phone.

She said, "I don't think photos are allowed in here."

"Fine," I said.

I activated the phone camera. It was hard to get myself and Ray's portrait into frame. Two globular faces.

When the phone was repocketed, I found Anthea had gone the way of her kids.

I spent another hour in the galleries. In the basement, after kitchens and furnaces, was a room of stacked with dusty sculptures by Epstein and his epigones. The gift shop was just a room of pallets heaped with musty reams of drawing paper.

They were locking the doors when I left.

The sun was down, the western sky cadmium yellow deep.

I stood by the empty car in the empty parking lot.

A good lesson for me: drive yourself, don't depend upon others for a ride.

My sister and her kids: nowhere in sight.

Fiery red brick in the gloaming, the museum filled the sky.

28 October 2018


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