suspending himself from a ceiling, the post hiroshima japanese artist kazuo shiraga would paint using only his feet. action painting, indeed. this gutai breakout artist has had his moment in recent years, but still i have not warmed up to him. the works i’ve seen so far of his seem so unrhetorical, so explicit to the meaning of the very act of his art making.
and yet, i don’t object to the literal in my own life.
a rescued memory while waiting for the rain to subside in an inadequate bus stop this afternoon: this in college, sem break and my beard went to travel somewhere. i chose to stay in campus as the very first boy who foolhardily told me he was also into me wasn’t going nowhere. that was sunday, for we missed vespers that evening, we bolted from this screening of a satjayit ray black and white to go back to his dorm room. when he was on top of me, i would pull him down like gravity and his sweat like the monsoon rains drenched my face.