Friday, 4 June 2010
I love this painting so much. I don't recall ever seeing it prior to standing before the original in the Palazo Pitti. It isn't the same in reproduction - in real life it's as though a huge wind has swept across the canvass and stirred up the paint. I want to go back and stand in front of it again.
I feel smaller away from it. Back home, in my father's house, I have a postcard of it stuck to the wall by my pillow so that the first few seconds of wakefulness make me feel wild and full of war.
Also, today I have been reading City Boy, which is interesting but impossible to love. I liked this in it though:
"No one is sincerely interested in writing a journal that will never be published...If a writer has the desire to communicate by writing and be heard, then he necessarily cares about seeing his work into print. I suppose its the difference between masturbation and making love - the real writer wants to touch another person."