|David Hockney - A Bigger Splash|
Monday, 8 October 2012
Blue Couch by a Swimming Pool
Like that Hockney painting, very California – or at least, having never been there or likely to, an interpretation of the water gliding under the spiky leaves. Why, at this panic-moment must you stand on this shadow? As if thought-reading the book closes on the theory that globes suspended from the hut beams are not light but darkness suckers. Today, two lozenges of compact herb gathered from banks of water streams that provide all of the help we can get. Clothe-smelling darkness. That shade is a cat crawling the sleeve of my Grandmother's frock, its head revealing startles. The shed changed the colour of its door twice, I think, in that particular lifetime. It was orange like fire green like traffic. But black latches – yes, certainly orange remained constant. It was the smell that got you made of garden tools their well-worn handles. The plastic mower with its carefully wound acres of orange wires. The fruit boxes lined with the big stories of the day – experimental vegetation such as the evening's labour depicted in cheap pencils in seductive packaging – the case with the zip – flamenco dancers – a tall señor posed, embossed on the canvas.