siamo fuoco nel fuoco ormai
bruciamo in fretta noi...
~ Eros Ramazzotti ‘Fuoco nel fuoco‘ 2000
bruciamo in fretta noi...
~ Eros Ramazzotti ‘Fuoco nel fuoco‘ 2000
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| Clara & Rose ~ Max Sauco |
To Ellie, unwilling to look into the mouths of the gift-horses offered; the opulent bedroom with en-suite bathroom, the bottle of Champaign on ice, back-lit and posed on a silver tray; are all evidence of how little they know her.
Champaign has never represented the world she knows; most people have never even been in within 50 miles of a bottle of Champagne, let alone tasted anything subtler that potato djinn – and anyway, for Ellie, it’s bubbly and shallow image can’t hide anything deeper that a state of air-headedness in the drinker. Also, she knows better than to dull her senses to what she’s about to attempt, and with those she’s about to attempt it with; who knows how deep these games can go.
Ellie surmises that there are few deaths more humiliating than accepting a glass of poison offered as recompense.
The Champagne is easily resisted; the ice she uses to reduce the swelling caused by Giles’ foreplay - cold.
The hot bath is not so easily resisted; she submits to the blue tinted water, the subtly fragranced soap offered on a gold half-shell protruding from a wall of baroque figures writhing into the mouth of a crazy-eyed god. A chill runs across her shoulders when it dawns on her that this soap dish is a 3-d rendition of Vásquez’s World-eater.
She breathes deep and expels the tension down her spine, out through spread fingers and toes, and lets it go.
The fact that Krystal chose to commission this monstrosity of a bath is beyond Ellie’s ability to empathise but she’s sure it would have caused an apoplexy of laughter from the artist were he to see it; not to mention were he to see her in it.
Ellie was living with Vásquez during those months in ‘36 when he completed the original painting; the anger that emanates from the steel plate on which it is etched; the thick barbs of paint; the holes drilled through it; anger so contrary to the artist’s demeanour and certainly not evident in this fabbed Barbie-doll mock-horror rendition; this porcelain rendition which robs the original of all its anger and renders it harmless.
The thought of him actually seeing her sends a palpable hurt under her defences, causing her to la-la-la it into submission, now’s not the time for regrets even though ’38 was a fucking disaster and she knows she’s partly to blame.
She wonders how Krystal even got to see the painting, given the invisible wall of paranoia and enmity that comprises Bigmark’s Kulture.
Champaign has never represented the world she knows; most people have never even been in within 50 miles of a bottle of Champagne, let alone tasted anything subtler that potato djinn – and anyway, for Ellie, it’s bubbly and shallow image can’t hide anything deeper that a state of air-headedness in the drinker. Also, she knows better than to dull her senses to what she’s about to attempt, and with those she’s about to attempt it with; who knows how deep these games can go.
Ellie surmises that there are few deaths more humiliating than accepting a glass of poison offered as recompense.
The Champagne is easily resisted; the ice she uses to reduce the swelling caused by Giles’ foreplay - cold.
The hot bath is not so easily resisted; she submits to the blue tinted water, the subtly fragranced soap offered on a gold half-shell protruding from a wall of baroque figures writhing into the mouth of a crazy-eyed god. A chill runs across her shoulders when it dawns on her that this soap dish is a 3-d rendition of Vásquez’s World-eater.
She breathes deep and expels the tension down her spine, out through spread fingers and toes, and lets it go.
The fact that Krystal chose to commission this monstrosity of a bath is beyond Ellie’s ability to empathise but she’s sure it would have caused an apoplexy of laughter from the artist were he to see it; not to mention were he to see her in it.
Ellie was living with Vásquez during those months in ‘36 when he completed the original painting; the anger that emanates from the steel plate on which it is etched; the thick barbs of paint; the holes drilled through it; anger so contrary to the artist’s demeanour and certainly not evident in this fabbed Barbie-doll mock-horror rendition; this porcelain rendition which robs the original of all its anger and renders it harmless.
The thought of him actually seeing her sends a palpable hurt under her defences, causing her to la-la-la it into submission, now’s not the time for regrets even though ’38 was a fucking disaster and she knows she’s partly to blame.
She wonders how Krystal even got to see the painting, given the invisible wall of paranoia and enmity that comprises Bigmark’s Kulture.
| Eros Ramazzotti | ||
| Fuoco nel fuoco | ||
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