Beware of friends. Especially when they talk about novels. A friend calls this one a dream. And so we read the book as if in reverie; nodding off now and then we enhance the effect, an oil donkey over a well of words.
Think of a door, a furnace behind it; think of heat pulsating through steel, which is turned into transparency, into glass. Out of this dark place, the basement of a building, its coal mine of a night, a tropical mirage.
Sitting in the auditorium while the actors cover us with warm blankets.
The eyes are closed. The mouth hardly open. Keep out! My face is shut to you. No one is allowed in here. Staff only! No cook wants the guests to see his dirty oven.
A gigantic lightbulb in a blacked out room.
Garish. The simple emotions the actor is creating in us. The colours burst out, like flowers through leaves. It is Spring; painted by God in his infancy.
Waves of warmth lap up and into the stalls.
Hair wild in the wind; each strand drawn with mathematical precision, with a pen, with a ruler. We think of chemicals bubbling inside a retort. Yes. This man a scientist, he is a technician, calibrating his performance with an exact measure, to each millimetre.
It is not easy being your own experiment.
The head pulsing with heat; the emotions carve bumps and crevices into the beautiful geometry of a young face.
Flames seeping through, wrinkles of heat cracking the smooth surface, which is melting… The human will out! A bud pushes through leaves; the mask giving way to the spirit inside it. This man will have his say.
Schauspieler Maske. A monument to movement.
The hair a carefully drawn storm. His head some pompous stone. The colours psychedelic swirls on a middle-aged matron; her mini-dress dancing in the dark, whose reds, green, whose yellows are flying off, spinning out into the air.
A sculpture bursting its bounds. Klee defining his art.