Even By Our Mother’s Dust
I was commissioned by the good Paloma Wake to contribute a painting for her production of John Ford’s ludicrous play, “‘Tis Pity She’s A Whore,” and since Artaud wrote at length about good ol’ Giovanni and Annabella’s torrid twincestuous escapades and disheartening ends. [har har…har…], and Artaud died of rectal cancer, and I write poems about liquid shit, I figured it’d be a splendid place to start my tumblng.
This play is actually five plays crassly spun into one. Tricky to direct, tremendous to act, and almost impossible to take seriously. In other words, I think it’s swell.
There’s a moment in the first act when Giovanni and Annabella confess their love for each other. This is immense, because they’re fraternal twins. And because Annabella’s in the process of being suited by three different gentlemen. And because they’re fraternal twins.
They kneel and recite this ad hoc oath that goes “Even by our mother’s dust, I charge you. Do not betray me to your mirth or hate. Love me, or kill me.” It’s a total break in rhythm from the rest of the play, and a startlingly beautiful moment. I chose to paint that moment, of burgeoning sexuality, beclouded by repressive forces, incomprehensible and primal and filled with joy.
It’s about four feet by 3.5 feet, acrylics, pages from the bible [blerp], cheesecloth, flower petals, and pigeon feathers. My unsettling fascination with pigeons calls for a post all its own.
