I had a tremendous artwalk today, prowling the edges of the oldest part of the city.
This shark was near the top of a broken, dirty wall encircling a huge construction site that triangulated neatly in a three-block radius with En Aparte, our favorite local French restaurant (and they will be seeing me tomorrow for the menu du jour) and the local Arc d’Triumphe, which looked magnificent in and somewhat dwarfed by the blue-sky sunny afternoon.
This is one of my favorite placements; the winged human (Icarus?) looks incredible soaring against the hot colours of the barrier. I love the clever straps to hold onto.
Excitingly, I finally stumbled onto a clean copy of this Venn diagram that has haunted me since I saw a copy of it too battered to read; I can see by the edition number that now I have only 373 more of these to locate.
Thankfully now I know what lies between creation and order (the imposition of will) and what stands between chaos and destruction (discipline).
I like this little armoured mole so much. His placement on the wall of drips, swirls and tags is perfect.
I’ve had some fascinating experiences here. I have had occasion to question reality, my own intentions, my seeing, my truthfulness, my fears, my dreams. I’ve felt that I might do anything, that I might do nothing, I’ve forgotten more than I have remembered, moving through a sea of days, working into the very late nights, the very early mornings, walking and walking and walking and listening to music and thinking about exactly where I might be not only in the maze of Spanish streets but in the complex, layered geometry of my own existence.
One thing that I know for sure, and that I didn’t have to leave home to find out, is that (like T-Bone Burnett) in the future, I’m only going to work with nice people who have my best interests at heart as well as their own. I vow to myself that no matter how fascinating, talented or original a person is, if they’ve got a mean streak, I am not going to get involved. I might enjoy their creative output, but I’m not working with them. And maybe if I say that enough times it will become true. I always think that I’m the one, the one who can get through, the one who can find that strand of real love inside, who can bring out the best in the wild ones. And for a while, or maybe off and on forever, that’s true.
My biggest problem is that I fall for genius; I have been willing to overlook occasionally cruel behavior time and again, in love, work, and friendship because of my passion for a kind of questing brilliance that is often found bound up, like the feet of Chinese girls, with bitterness or disappointment. I promise myself that in the future I will weed out the mean ones, but I’m not sure I believe myself.
I was charmed by these tiny books (each one is about 3 x 4″ in a cigar box in a vintage shop. I should have bought one.
Also, research can be fun. Peter Perrett Jr. played in Oliver Thompson’s band Rubber Kiss Goodbye; I became curious about his dad, Peter Perrett, from the great, doomed ’70s punk band The Only Ones, (link is to a 2007 Guardian article on their reunion) who I may or may not have seen live in 1979 (it’s as hard for me to say for sure as it would be for Peter Perrett, for similar reasons). They were a great, if unreliable, band.