Le corbeau #1
From: Douglas Gordon
Date: 24. April 2020 at 13:33:05 CEST
To: Christian Alandete
Subject: in advance of the start...
Berlin, Friday April 24th, 2020.
i am finally quite happy with a way to progress with an 'announcement' today and to keep a stream of information flowing over the next months - almost a year as we know.
i will start with the form of a letter - directly to you. its 'old school' of course, but it's a form that i have used many times before and i think it falls somewhere between intimacy and formality -- hahah - perhaps we could play a little game with these letters - maybe we can evolve a scenario where there is a slight (or not) implication of guilt on the part of the reader. remember all those scenes in films, where a letter is found, discovered or stolen - and the drama of the opening of the envelope is raising the blood pressure of the culprit AND the viewer simultaneaously. then the letter is unfolded, gently - almost as if the material is not paper but something much more fragile - a butterfly wing perhaps - or an unfired piece of porcelain (i had an experience with that lately and it was quite a shock to the system i can promise you). The letter is unfolded with trembling hands, and the viewer is deliberately prevented from seeing the written text - or even the cut out textual collages that seem to be very popular when blackmail or kidnap is the criminal currency, heheh.
we, the viewers, need to try to pick up on the hidden content of the letter by decoding the facial response of the guilty reader. its not that difficult, really. usually the illicit reader will either drop the letter in a state of shock - at which point the letter (if it was porcelain) would shatter into a million pieces and could NEVER be put back together again - the message is burnt into the retina and then finds a nasty dark corner in the brain in which to hide from the world. hehehe, again.
even if the letter is actually real paper, when it falls to the floor there is every chance that an uncanny gust of wind has somehow possesed the room - probably a window left open by a lazy butler or a door not properly closed by a promiscuous maid. the butler is tired and lazy because he is engaged in a ferocious sexual adventure with the maid - perhaps that is the essence of the content of the letter! my goodness, im wondering how an exchange of emails between two angels like you and i could possibly ignite interest at least and rumour and scandal at best.
i look forward to your thoughts, sir.
if we can find a device to masquerade the emails as good ol' fashioned ink on paper - somehow hiding the letter amongst other texts or images - it might just set up enough of a platform for us to have some fun.
apparently ol' Giacommetti was a true devotee of 'distraction' on almost a daily basis, i heard.
i mean, if the stories are really true - the legendary drinking sessions with auld Beckett, then a quick walk around the block to the Sphinx (?) in good time to work off the alcohol before going home to his wife for tea. Sometimes.
its funny, i often look at the sculptures of the prostitutes and im kind of trying to picture this fellow as a sexual athlete, taking on not only his favourite gal, but also her friend, who invited a neighbour who was short on cash to pay the rent and she invited her daughter (sometimes) and her cousin (other times) just to stimulate our Swiss Sorcerer with different shapes, sizes and more importantly the variation in skin texture - from plump to lean to young to 'experienced'. i suppose that one does notice the difference in the figures when we look hard enough and for long enough - at first glance, the first time i saw thse pieces, i was quite sad that they seemed to be even sadder than i was - i thought they were enveloped in a tedium or melancholy that screamed out 'anonymity'. but then, later, looking longer, and almost beginning to look 'through' th surface of the bodies - i suddenly found myself blessed with the ability to imagine the skin and not the bronze, i could almost, then, imagine the smell of each woman being different to one another and certainly different from the odour of the man who was really 'handling' the bodies - in the way that he would be more sensitive than most when he would have hos hands in freezing cold water to mix the plaster to gather together anough of a mass in order to call it a person. and clay too ! Have you ever worked with clay Mr Alandete ?
its quite 'alive'.
but all of this skirting around the erotic is really just a means to segué into my own connection with Mr Giacommetti.
Maybe we might save that story for a little later. I have to cook a little lunch for my daughter and i before my blood sugar level goes too low. We dont really eat out very much these days, what with the world grinding to a halt with a nastybastard virus that is sweeping the globe - i was chatting to my dad about it last week - he's 86 years old you know (how old was Mr G., when he finally kicked the bucket ?). anyway, i said to my dad that this virus is really like a sneaky nastybastard rather than a black clad gunslinger wh rode into town and shot not only his shabby drunken enemies, but he enjoyed 'no mercy' and shot several horses in the street - the owners unknown, he didnt give damn, he really did not care - so our handsome, all in black assasin (i fancy marlon brando as he played the anti-hero of anti-heros in 'One Eyed Jacks") left behind a pony of horses, the lazy bastards he had shot into town to kill - and he shot the undertaker as well - just to make the point.
Anyway, I digress - this corona seems like a snake that is moving fast enough to escape being caught or shot, tortured or eaten - no this virus is no angel of death sent by Jehovah to kill the first born egyptian of every house, while Charlton Heston fought with his conscience over a matzo bread roll and his clear sexual desire for pharoahs wife ( hwo is played with EXACTLY the same expressions, gestures and devotion to character as she did playing Eve Harrington in...)
Ok, my friend, i need to dash now, the boudin waits for no man !
kisses from kreuzberg,