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Untitled, 2014. 45x55 cm
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Lido di Venezia, 2014
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Michael Craig-Martin
Study for a neon drawing of an endlessly opening book, 1974
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Leda and the Swan (Part IV), 1980
Cy Twombly -
John Armleder
“my place” series
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Edward Weston - Modoc, Lava Beds, California, 1937
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Alfred Stieglitz, Georgia O’Keefe’s Hands and Horse Skull, 1931
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unbenannt by nacha.canvas on Flickr.
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unbenannt by nacha.canvas on Flickr.
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April Gornik
The Equinox, 1987
oil on linen, 74 x 103” -
parkdale
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Norman Ackroyd (Brit. 1938- )
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JOANNA CONSTANTINIDIS (British, 1927-2000) Early Bottle Form, circa 1970 Stoneware, dark bronze glaze over a textured surface, the flattened tapering form with asymmetric neck, impressed C seal H 45.7cm, W 15cm, D7.5cm
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Agnes Martin
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SuTurno
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at Bayfield, Ontario
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Ellsworth Kelly, 1979-1980
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Sophie,
I have been meaning to write and reply to your last e-mail for a while. At the same time, I thought it would be be better to talk to you and tell you what I have to say out loud. Still, at least it will be written.
As you have noticed, I have not been quite right recently. As if I no longer recognised myself in my own existence. A terrible feeling of anxiety, which I cannot really fight, other than keeping on going to try and overtake it, as I always have done.
When we met you laid down one condition: not to become the “fourth”. I stood by that promise: it has been months now since I have seen the “others”, because I obviously could find no way of seeing them without making you one of them.
I thought that would be enough, I thought that loving you and your love would be enough so that this anxiety- which constantly drives me to look further afield and which means I will never feel quiet and at rest or probably even just happy or “generous”- would be calmed when I was with you, with the certainty that the love you have for me was the best for me, the best I have ever had, you know that. I thought that my writing would be a remedy, that my “disquiet” would dissolve into it so that I could find you. But no. In fact it even became worse, I cannot even tell you the sort of state I feel I am in. So I started calling the “others” again this week. And I know what that means to me and the cycle that it will drag me into.
I have never lied to you and I do not intend to start lying now:
There was another rule that you laid down at the beginning of our affair: the day we stopped being lovers you would no longer be able to envisage seeing me. You know this constraint can only ever strike me as disastrous, and unjust (when you still see B and R…) and understandable (obviously…); so I can never become your friend. But now you can gauge how significant my decision is from the fact I am prepared to bend to your will, even though there are so many things- not seeing you or talking to you or catching the way you look at people and things, and your gentleness towards me- that I will miss terribly.
Whatever happens, remember that I will always love you in the same way, my own way, I have ever since I first met you; that it will carry on within me and, I am sure, will never die.
But it would be the worst kind of masquerade to prolong a situation now when, you know as well as I do, it has become irreparable by the standards of the very love I have for you and you have for me, a love which is now forcing me to be so frank with you, as final proof of what happened between us and will always be unique.
I would have liked to things to have turned out differently.
Take care of yourself.
X
Take Care of Yourself, Sophie Calle
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Sophie Calle, I Died in a Good Mood, 2013
