forty three: iris , virginia, sylvia....waiting longing waiting

Flowers, Viktor & Rolf Collection, Spring/Summer 2003, stills/screenshots

Falling harder

I long for the softest

purest lace of thought

Retire to calm nervous tension

relieving painfully uncovering

snow- coldest touch

I suffer and look directly at them

They stare

Sylvia, Virginia, Iris

Marching and banning your drums

Stones in your pockets

Rivers flowing, the seas, the sea

Seagulls

your brave thoughts

Screaming onwards

Go, go, go

Match your flags

I continue

Sparkling diamonds

Hands apart I have no fear

Hollow blackness and granite silence

I am upside and downwards

Reunion of thought and old feelings

You are my mountain

Embody me, you’ll understand

Or perhaps you never will

Does it matter?

To my knowledge I shall resign from you

Right now

You remind me

I crawl towards your chronic fatigue

Gather your ample skirts

Shake your meaty limbs and overflowing breasts

Standing absently minding doorways

Blurred vision

My flatfooted stumble towards you

Red lipstick candlelight

You will never leave my bed

Around your meek and weakened limbs

I am afraid

I am afraid by entering me you will steal

These emotions are worth nothing

Nothing is

The glare of the screens

the music beating your heart

Forward

For one day, you too, shall die

It won't last

I have barely gathered

What do you want from my body

Solid heavy embrace

Trembling in your selfish presence on behalf of all the others I salute you

You loved me once

Perhaps again you do

Reflective surface of my skin I can see you

From here

the state of the need

your new name

we fly back and fade to black

Leaving painfully

Behind your fingertips and traces of saliva

Silvery red and slippery

The space between you

the clown

The children we shall not know

The trees the stones of jewellery the leaves and spring

Oldest pausing backwards

rewinding

Never reaching, never floating

In Paris or London

Belonging singing praising you

The cities swoon and crumble under the heaviness of your leather boots

Stumbling over her grandeur run and laugh

Accordingly

There are no windows

No doors no exit no entries

The hidden treasures

The space

The floating worlds and slowly cooked ideas

The stew of flowers

I collected in the fields

The coffin of the melodies

The red cloth

Covering

What are you waiting for

For the treasure of stupidity

For the true value of mad rush

the flat fields and meadows

in the corn, the wheat

solo

Knowing unknowing

Rising and skies above

The loneliness pursuing

in shadows

Xmas light decoration

lurking in the smallest

details carved in whiteness

purple shadows and yellow highlights

Waiting Waiting longing longing

the light

Reminds me

I shall be terrorizing you soon

Herself

Do you know where she lies?

Somewhere around here

The children we call women

The women we call old

One day you will be what they all are amongst your mountains of junk food bright wrappers plastic to go containers and Jewel oz co bags amidst piles of unwashed laundry mimicking your relationship to your self one day it will be omitted little how large how big how small you were how thin how fat how thick one day wondering the streets of the city of oz which you create you stumble across the world of you and once upon a time you see yourself floating above yourself and shadows and lights fade and disappear and towards you opens a close up of your worn face and only then with windows or required thought of truth we shall Miracle into the future light of our deaths and only then you require anonymity of your art.

Bright bold spectacular

Working hardly

Perfecting hair

You bring her food

Enjoying the body

Rooted in loneliness

Describing in blood

I understand your Misery

Sometimes silence trembles beside me

I let it

Fuck

the world owes you nothing

the blue stain

the chunky white stroke of your paint

the brushed aside

your tiny world sins heavily

awkwardly you dance

slowly gesticulating

nowhere have I found

these types of unconsciousness

the green of pastures

to accomplish

to shock

to remind and walk

to flirt feverishly vomiting your juices

I swelled

nothing remains whilst you may weep

nothing stings anymore

golden

the troublesome boy

the best of the year

the dry mouth

the liquid

the soup

them sitting beside me

Virginia, Iris, Sylvia

Head in the oven

River

The brain stew

The active birds

Outside

The snow covered Chicago

The unwilling flights of fancy

I AM to be

awaiting

glowing in my own dark

Ah, repelling men, I rejoice

Oh gloomy days

I seek you out

The depressed awaiting collaboration

The contributions are welcome

upraised

unskilled and handsome

tint the nights

of the blankets

the coffee colored stains

the trees in your frontyards

no imitator

you try so hard to learn

words express hardly touching your toes

you burn burn burn for nobody to catch

redeeming and fasting

the true meaning

the blur

the idea

that idea

I want gypsy floated large skirts layers and volume

flowers unmatched all colors mixed

twirl and scoop swoon and return

alert

everyday is your party

Party it up girl

woman you are

refuse to be polluted and shallow

floor length tulle

barely skimming

ashes

TWENTY FIVE: LAP-TOP-LESS//symphony to Vogue and eye-lust

Katya Grokhovsky, 2010, Summer

End of Summer TA-ship. Last overwhelming critique of final photo projects and I am in teacher mode. Satisfied and head ached, yet what a joy to impart wisdom to younger minds. My Lap-Top has decided to commit half-suicide and I took it, weeping silently, to its parents, Apple. I am waiting and have found myself, in panic-mode. How long has it been, since I did not have a laptop attached to my hip? Dinosaurs were seemingly alive. My phone is no IPhone either and I am left with a strange forgotten electronically dependant nothingness. I have become at my own disposal. Now, I have to drag myself over to school's labs and library to check up on mostly unnecessary emails and to waste some precious summer hours on FB. I admit to this.

However, this has been a curse and a blessing in slightly veiled disguise. I spent Saturday Night Reading. yes. Reading a big fat book by Camille Paglia, Sexual personae - Art and Decadence from Nefertiti to Emily Dickinson. It made me hungry, horny, and absolutely intrigued and wanting More. And there is More. It is a big book, as stated previously. I like big Books and I cannot lie. I do. The end isn't near and the pleasure is prolonged. My book lust has been awakened once again, and I found myself lazily and lustfully wondering over to bookshops. Skimming titles, I buy Absurdistan and Kafka on the shore ...and an over-sized September issue of American Vogue. Ah, pleasure here we go. I'm half down into Absurdistan already. Hungry constantly. Brain craves fuel. But let me caress thee and sing to Vogue.

The satisfaction of new glossy shiny untouched and virgin Vogue has been my life-long forbidden pleasure and spending luxury. I luuuve it. Somehow, I permit myself this particular vice and never-ending Vogues pile up wherever I am, only to be left behind to new loving owners or deposited in parents' garage, in dusty rotting mountains of decaying splendour. Talk about Decadence and its' disease of the eye. Perhaps. yet, as I open and sniff the perfumed pages, here Gucci, here Prada, here Yves Saint Laurent, nothing exists. Only the end will be near, soon enough. The newness of the new, the promise of love? Coming from troubled waters of my fashion background, all this isn't surprising, but its persistence well into my art life is, if a little embarrassing to admit to my artist peers. I buy Vogue. Italian mostly, occasionally American and Australian, sometimes French. I am Vogaholic and I am proud of It. Is there a cure? I'd like to think not. Magazines have long been discussed as objects of desire par excellence in themselves, and that is partly true, of course, but it is what they contain that leaves me with some sort of magically enhanced endorphins, floating about my over-excited blood.

I Vogue- page- shop in my mind. I imagine my glossy sleek heroines as myself, adapted and reshaped, better versions of myself, more glamorous, groomed, aloof, less human, less and more woman, less fragile, less emotional, more sophisticated. I imagine all this, as images flood my imagination, I float on a cloud of mixed perfumed scents and labels. The designer names are whispered in soft French lace and silkiest baby pig leather into my ears. I am almost ready to pray. I lust and hunger and want . How politely incorrect. I'd like to hate this, but I do not.

My taste for decadent disarray and accumulation of beautiful things has always been there, even if I vigorously deny it in cleaning sprees and tornadoes and sometimes very minimal held back mode in my practice. But it is precisely that, just barely holding back the curtain of absolute avalanche of madness and beauty and desire, that I work with and sometime release, sometime strap tight, sometime destroy and start afresh.

TO Vogue, Pleasure and pain of non-attainment.