Sunday, 5 July 2015
I pull out Black Unity. Inside there is a photograph of Pharaoh Saunders, majestic with his afro hair and mandarin profile. I look at this photograph and I try to see what Richard Seymour sees.
I’m on the sofa listening to the two basses, hippie percussion, Pharaoh’s saxophone, and that lazy trumpet line; then the two basses again, and a reference to A Love Supreme. I look at the photograph. But nothing comes to me. I try so hard, but I do not see what Richard Seymour sees.
Thursday, 2 July 2015
An artist. She floats on the wreckage of a sunken love affair.
A fragile fairy tale. It collapses; her mind in fragments; her life a tearful cataract.
She is an artist creating beauty out of loss.
An artist. She must destroy her world; only then can she invent a paradise.