Van Gogh’s – la liseuse du roman

 Posted by at 12:50 pm  Atelier, IN Conversation  Comments Off
Jul 042007

Have we talked ourselves out of fiction? Is this the one long last goodbye to – "the extended narrative without any rules", the end of all the excitement with her, la liseuse?

Have we finally come to a standstill? And in the face of this. Earth-shaking, trembling, hardly one brick left on top of another, tiled roofs slipped, gabbles like ribs sticking up into the sky, shop signs at crazy angles, and dust still hanging in the air. Watching for Van Gogh’s woman to slowly turn the page. Except, she isn’t reading. And this isn’t a story.

This isn’t a story, but an almost irresistable desire to curl up, close the eyes and fall asleep. The armchair is turned towards the wall upon which row upon row of books on shelves appear to glow shades of green and orange and yellow. Strong sunlight floods into the room. The eye casually sweeps over the inhabitants, searching for Van Gogh’s other young woman, the one sat in the armchair with the book open on her lap, her head slightly inclined down. Viewed from behind, she is reading, or… du roman. But she cannot be found.

Long Silence
Has the shaking finally stopped ?

Long Silence -
Has all the writing ceased?


Waking from the dream

 Posted by at 7:11 am  IN Conversation  Comments Off
Jul 042007

The weight of my head was important. There was a burrowing heaviness, gravity pulling me into something that seemed highly dangerous. The weight of my head overbalanced me and drove me into the next barrier. Head bowed, battering into the earth mound, the mattress, something not altogether hard. At the same time I was on top of a train, on the roof, moving towards the front, jumping over the gaps between the carriages. Not only that but I had the distinct impression that the carriages were getting narrower. I don’t like it but there is nothing I can, I am compelled to drive myself on, I know not to what end.
Waking up to the sound of rain still in the grip of fear from the last jump and clinging precariously to the narrowing carriage roof.
The strange world of dreams. The puzzle of images strung together, the emotion lived through, ‘this is my life’, and then it’s not – oh, it was a dream, but there remains the tastes, the hangover of the dream, inviting further work.
Two dreams, one from fifteen years ago, a dream of being dragged out of bed, me trying to get back into bed; a wake-up call as I saw it – the start of new chapter, the beginning of a journey through a difficult landscape, which the dream described above can stand for – in the dark not knowing what the outcome will be, what the purpose of the journey is. What is the destination of the train and what is my destination? I was heading for the front of the train, but will I ever reach it, the engine, will I ever get to share a joke with the driver?