And because I am a fool, knowing damn well that my hairline has receded all the way to my back fuzz.
To wake up each day with the foresight of what can and will be, as long as one keeps the reality where it must always remain—in the head, behind the eyes, turning and churning, the little dynamo of enthusiasm, with routine puffs of steam let out the extremities else BOOM! What would I do otherwise? Where would I go if “Danae” was left on a wall in Lena’s flat in Saint Petersburg and another winter came, with another gallery/bank formed in the subterranean depths and rising to the pretend top of the world because all red blood dulled to black and the ice came and stayed an eon?
The reason I know that I am one of the last curators to promote art and its artist is because of my good looks. I am stuck with them. I spend money I don’t have because all money is an abstraction with a giant chip on its shoulder. It wants to bring me food, shelter, dull raiment, and occasional freedom walks, but in the present moment I get so bored out of my skull with money’s monotone that the hairs just leap off rather stay with such a cloying wannabe.
I choose in my small way to enhance the life of an artist because I am a creative humanist who is thrilled by the sacrament of another. And because no humanists are alike, I prefer the painter’s outward expression of an inward grace. It’s better than religion on all days except the Christmas kind, yet can act as a kind of half-Christmas throughout the year, if one only seeks it, religiously.
Which I do, hence the good looks. And with “Danae” beside me, I cannot stray too far away from the higher realm. Larry Gagosian, and his ancient, polished marble tile look-alikes, made a deal with the darkness a long time ago. His yacht floats on the river Styx, and nobody alive comes on board.
Promoting Lena is giving the gift of artist to the world. In the immortal words of the poet Patrick Kavanagh:
I gave her the secret sign
That’s known to all the artists who have
Known true Gods of Sound and Time.
There is not a gallery in any great city that can afford to be this insolvent on purpose. The rents are just too damn high!
So put the painting on the chair where all the people walk on a glorious Autumn afternoon, and don’t ask for a dime, especially if you hope to keep the last hold-outs in their follicles.