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NikaL25 октября 2016 г.Sometimes we played a game called Record of the Night. The album cover of the chosen record would be prominently displayed on the mantel. We played the disc over and over, the music informing the trajectory of the evening.
182- NikaL25 октября 2016 г.
I had a more romantic view of the artist’s life and sacrifices. I had once read that Lee Krasner had lifted art supplies for Jackson Pollock. I don’t know if it was true, but it served as inspiration.
174 - NikaL24 октября 2016 г.Читать далее
One evening in late November Robert came home a bit shaken. There were some etchings for sale at Brentano’s. Among them was a print pulled from an original plate from America: A Prophecy, water-marked with Blake’s monogram. He had taken it from its portfolio, sliding it down his pant leg. Robert was not one to steal; he hadn’t the nervous system for theft. He did it on impulse because of our mutual love of Blake. But toward the end of the day he lost courage. He imagined they were on to him and ducked into the bathroom, slid it out of his trousers, shredded it, and flushed it down the toilet.
I noticed his hands were shaking as he told me. It had been raining and droplets trickled down from his thick curls. He had on a white shirt, damp and sodden against his skin. Like Jean Genet, Robert was a terrible thief. Genet was caught and imprisoned for stealing rare volumes of Proust and rolls of silk from a shirt maker. Aesthetic thieves. I imagined his sense of horror and triumph as bits of Blake swirled into the sewers of New York City.
171 - NikaL24 октября 2016 г.
On November fourth, Robert turned twenty-one. I gave him a heavy silver ID bracelet I found in a pawnshop on Forty-second Street. I had it engraved with the words Robert Patti blue star. The blue star of our destiny.
167 - NikaL24 октября 2016 г.Читать далее
It was exciting just to stand in front of the hallowed ground of Birdland that had been blessed by John Coltrane, or the Five Spot on St. Mark’s Place where Billie Holiday used to sing, where Eric Dolphy and Ornette Coleman opened the field of jazz like human can openers.
We couldn’t afford to go inside. On other days, we would visit art museums. There was only enough money for one ticket, so one of us would go in, look at the exhibits, and report back to the other.
On one such occasion, we went to the relatively new Whitney Museum on the Upper East Side. It was my turn to go in, and I reluctantly entered without him. I no longer remember the exhibit, but I do recall peering through one of the museum’s unique trapezoidal windows, seeing Robert across the street, leaning against a parking meter, smoking a cigarette.
He waited for me, and as we headed toward the subway he said, “One day we’ll go in together, and the work will be ours.”
168 - NikaL24 октября 2016 г.
At seventeen he had been infatuated with the prestige of the Pershing Rifles, their brass buttons, highly polished boots, braids and ribbons. It was the uniform that attracted him, just as the robes of an altar boy had drawn him to the altar. But his service was to art, not to church or country. His beads, dungarees, and sheepskin vest represented not a costume but an expression of freedom.
159 - NikaL24 октября 2016 г.
My brother gave us a new needle for our record player, and my mother made us meatball sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil. We ate them and happily listened to Tim Hardin, his songs becoming our songs, the expression of our young love. My mother also sent along a parcel of sheets and pillowcases. They were soft and familiar, possessing the sheen of years of wear. They reminded me of her as she stood in the yard assessing with satisfaction the wash on the line as it fluttered in the sun.
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Guli_nimatovna26 сентября 2016 г.Но в ту ночь мне не спалось от радостного волнения: казалось, надо мной кружатся бескрайние возможности. Совсем как в детстве, я смотрела па отштукатуренный потолок. И чудилось, что вибрирующие узоры у меня над головой выстраиваются в правильном порядке. Это была мандала моей жизни
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Pier14 августа 2016 г.Читать далееНа Маркет-стрит я сошла, заглянула в «Недик»[13]. Опустила монетку в музыкальный автомат, прослушала пластинку Нины Симон с обеих сторон, выпила кофе с пончиком — в знак прощания. Перешла дорогу и оказалась на Филиберт-стрит, у лотка букиниста напротив автовокзала, у которого околачивалась последние несколько лет. Помедлила у лотка, с которого когда-то украла книгу Рембо. На этом самом месте теперь лежала потрепанная «Любовь на левом берегу»[14] с зернистыми черно-белыми фото — хроникой парижской ночной жизни в конце 50-х. Фото красавицы Вали Майерс — лохматой, с густо подведенными глазами, танцующей на улицах Латинского квартала — произвели на меня колоссальное впечатление. Эту книгу я красть не стала, но картинки запомнила.
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Leafpaw8 февраля 2016 г.Читать далееВсе это зашифровано в "Horses", все это и салют тем, кто шел перед нами и проложил нам путь. В "Стране птиц" ("Birdland") мы отправлялись в дорогу вместе с юным Петером Райхом: он ждал, что его отец Вильгельм Райх спустится с неба и выручит его. В "Разорви" ("Break It Up") Том Верлен и я рассказывали сон: как Джим Моррисон, скованный наподобие Прометея, внезапно вырывался на свободу. В "Земле" образы "диких мальчиков" сливались со стадиями агонии Хендрикса. "Элегия" ("Elégie") была обо всех них, о прошлом, настоящем и будущем, о тех, кого мы потеряли, и о тех, кого еще предстоит потерять.
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