I’m really just using the mirror to summon something I don’t even know until I see it.
When I look across the table, I don’t only see you but I see a whole emanation which has to do with the personality and everything else. And to put that over in a painting, as I would like to be able to do in a portrait, means that it would appear violent in paint.
The opening music a carnivalesque mixture of the whimsical and macabre.
Jaunty, eerie, pranksterish.
Like a jester in a skull mask.
Night, country road, a single car, only the tree trunks illuminated by headlights.
Treetops lost in the night sky.
The driver a woman in a shiny black leather coat, black gloves.
The style of 1960’s pre-Goth Goth.
A huddled figure in the backseat in trench coat and lowered fedora.
No face: not from our angle. Never from our angle.
A figure from a French noir in a film that leaks horror.
Dead or sleeping, the figure waits.
Wheels stop. A door opens.
Light fog, lapping water, the body dragged to the lake’s edge.
Black water glistens and her black coat glistens.
The figure barefoot, as bodies are in caskets.
The face as a specter we conjure in order to imagine what others see when they imagine us. But we have no idea what faces others imagine when they think about us. Our face multiplies in ways we can’t begin to conceptualize/control/account for. And we’ll never encounter those imagined faces, never see them in the mirror.
Most faces are imagined, not seen.Continue reading