Wednesday, 12 August 2015

Bad News from Houston, All my Friends are Dying

The Art is in the Being

my friend - French Al - lives in Berlin
but is from France
he is an Artist.
I know this, because
that is what he says he is
an Artist

he calls Berlin home
for it is cheap (-er, than England and/or France) to exist
as an Artist there
there are whole ghettos of artists
existing in Neukölln and Kreutzberg

also, I remember a drawing he did once
back when we were both younger
at school, in England

and I watched him smoking a cigarette
contemplating a small semi-circle of
black bricks
he’d previously arranged on the floor

he smokes a lot of cigarettes and
when I asked him
what he does in Berlin
for work?
he said
Oh, we don’t work, man 

Al (along with several other French and English art immigrés)
has gotten together a beautiful studio space
also in Neukölln
where he smokes a lot of cigarettes and
I saw him contemplating the semi-circle of black bricks.
I told him I thought it a beautiful studio space
I know man, it frightens me
He replied

French Al is one of my favourite people
and definitely favourite artists
alive or dead
his vision is pure and true and
he is not full of shit
And I appreciate the fact that he is he
above all else.

(I wrote this poem shortly after staying with Al in Berlin some 6 odd years ago now. He fell off a roof and died the other day. The world's a poorer place for it. Rage on Al. x)

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