Sunday, April 14, 2013

Louise Bourgeois: Late Works : My reflections

I did want to bring my daughter with me today.

I ached on the train and around me swirled Mother, Father.  Mother, Father with daughter or son in tow.  A unit a repetition together on the move. Some were; a child with a parent, lead by a distracted person out of practice with a child.

This is the time in my life I have waited for, the time when we go on excursions together.

I think maybe viewing this work would have been too terrifying.

He shimmies away to sit by a screen.  Quiet, quiet no questions for me.

What shape is this problem?

What answer does this line give me?

Frustrated by curators cleaning up, looking for order and white spaces around things.

I want to know how often she worked, what was the space like? Was she interrupted by family obligations? Was she a cleaner?

Obviously a hoarder with a show made of her clothing from over her life.  I wonder how true this is.  Everything that is written makes sense.

That what is there else other than mother, other than children?  When there are these there is no else.  I remember recollecting a time, perhaps when I was six, when I started realising that Mum and I were not the same person.  That I was separate from her and I had my own start and finish.

I remember ths shape of this realisation, soft like a rolled up pair of socks because sometimes I would wear this thought that I am her.  Other times I was still this thought in me, horror sadness and awe;  "Can it be true?".   This thought is no longer with me other than memory.

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