20 Paintings Kristian Weise

The Red Ceilings PressMMX [rcp 10]

http://redceilings.blogspot.com

20 Paintings Kristian Wiese

To Nati

Self Portrait 1

Draped in black velvet. Chalk colored skin. The only evidence of life shines

from his eyes and mouth. Chestnut curly hair, mine is falling off. Lucky for me.

How old are you? What is age? What is old? A skinny hand with long fingers.

His artists hand rests on his artists arm, quiet, silent. An alligator before it

jumps. One adores, the other becomes adored, lost somewhere in the middle

to think of you with no prospects to go home. Every morning hes born, and

when the day is up he dies helpless, as flowers are helpless and I always avoid

cameras, they say a photo can trap your soul. What about paintings, do they

have the same effect?

Today I got up, knocked my toe against the last step. A silent curse went back

inside, cut off backwards. Lit a cigarette and made coffee. The smell of coffee

in the morning smells better than Napalm. Sunrise opened up the pavement

and opened up the coffee shop in front of my building and opened up the post

office and the engines and the tubes. Woke everything up from the dead and

this is stronger than alcohol and more fun than song. Every night I die and

every morning Im reborn, and every day I think of you and I think that Im glad

I dont have to be somewhere right now. It would be impossible right now,

because of this red swollen big toe.

1 1620-1621. Oil on canvas. The Hermitage, St. Pettersburg, Russia

Portrait of Elena Grimaldi of Genoa 2

Her proud face underneath a red umbrella matches with her sleeves. A flower

in her hand, a slave at her back. Her belly grows her mind dies. Its not even

noon and Im drunk. Is the clouded background a symbol of life, of death,

of happiness? All together its something that Im only seeing. A fragment, a

skull, a white-knuckle hand grasping at the doorknob, the moon reflects the

doorknob. The moon makes life. No one else seems to notice the little boy

in the orange jump suit. His face contrasts with hers. His knuckles clenched

around the wooden shaft grasping the umbrella.

The moon makes everything still. Silence, the eyes, the dusk, the town, can tell

you about dreams you never had. Wires coming out of the ears of the rust red

Double Decker pounding an abandoned road past abandoned houses. Left over

lives and left over dresses. Is it life on the moon? Do they have poetry there?

The saddest thing I know is all the books Ill never read and all the places Ill

never visit. How short is a life? I never asked to be born, but again, Ill never ask

to die. Its a hoax anyway, a damn good one. Is poetry real? The poem is

not a dream, Well Ted what is? Can you tell me what it is, 4:39 a.m. I ask but

you never answer. Its a bad circle. The phone always rings, but I never answer.

Afraid to hear voices and discover whats underneath.

2 1623. Oil on canvas. The National Gallery of Art, Washington DC, USA

Portrait of Marie-Louise of Tassis 3

Venus Beauty two centuries after Venus, to public display after Venus. Short

black curly hair. Venus. Her hand grasps a feather quill the neck & chest

display her wealth. All I can do is sit back and enjoy and dream and fall back

and hope that my head doesnt touch the floor. Storm coloured blue, quiet

before the storm. Cheeks with red roses cheeks too fragile to touch, the vision

of Madonna above cigar butts and over my portal the picture of you and she

makes me young. I cant help myself any more. Stretch out and feel that dress.

Lace & satin. Within two seconds lime like light lights my skull and explodes.

The grey background becomes more narcissistic, more vivid, violent, not meant

to be grasped by anyone, not even You. And that collar can make the most

hard-headed man bleed from his hands and all assonance is drained from the

motionless frame. The lingering wasteland of solid rock hard cement on a sky

of meditations, levitations in free verse and Haikus out of control. The walls

carry traces of abuse tonight. High heel marks, lipstick and mustard stains and

Im unable to sleep or walk in sleep half silence and with reason.

3 1630. Oil on canvas. Grand Ducal Collection, Vaduz, Liechtenstein

Henrietta Maria and the dwarf, Sir Jeffrey Hudson 4

The Queens Dwarf, a monkey on his shoulder a monkey for the Queen. The

colors contrast

with the surroundings, the queen in blue the rest is red. Is her blood blue too?

My veins are open and my eyes muddy. Yesterday I dreamed about a flying

monkey and Africa and Rhinos roaming the jungle. The smell of meat and dust

and mud, red roads drenched in blood a river of blood from here to Timbuktu.

Tonights heat will dry that dream and it will fall into dust.

Open veins of yesterday. Hung over bed sheets and ash everywhere. All the

dishes are still in the sink, been standing there for four long days now. Cant

see the point of complain. Were too dull to understand. Im

not a monkey, I dont have a monkey on my back, I wouldnt mind a kiss from

a monkey though, if I was a monkey myself. G8 are doing all they can. Glazed

politicians, who strive to make my present tastier, but, why then? I read the

news today, today and yesterday. Still no news from the poets in Ghana. Still no

news from them.

4 1633. Oil on canvas. The National Gallery of Art, Washington DC, USA

Children of Charles 1 5

Autumn is fun for these kids dressed as small adults they contrast small

children. The boy to the left the future king to the left. Who went to France

in exile, who later was brought back, who promoted theatre and poetry, who

gambled on the wrong poet and received satire after satire from the drunk

poet. But this is all in the past and we cross out February 25th 2010 and its

8:39 a.m. and I think its going to rain today. I got no other plans today than

to stay at my desk with my books and papers and pictures and you. And living

is easy these days at least for now, even though I got a pain in my head from

wearing my hair too long and I think about the poets in the world both alive

and dead and hope theyre happy on a day like this with art poetry and coffee

anything can happen and nothing will.

France, Paris, 18:49, May, not in exile, only sweating. A little drunk, been

walking Boulevard St Germain all day. Drank the most expensive beer at caf

Lipp. Ate croque moisure, walked along the Seine. Kept you with me all the

time through the narrow streets past benches filled with lovers. Stood for one

hour looking at Notre Dame. I think youre my Dame. Had dinner with a stray

dog before I went home and fainted on my bed. And this is not a dream. It

cant be. I feel too awake and I think song is better. All I cross out is muffled

footsteps & muffled minds.

5 1635. Oil on canvas. Windsor Castle, Royal Collection, UK

Portrait of Charles I 6

Three Times Charles 1st. Blue, Red, Lilac. White silk collars. The royal Pearl

dangles from his ear. The royal star shines on his shoulder. Three times Charles

1st nose. Crooked flesh, outstretched with a bump. A royal deformation

displayed three times in a dimly lit room where sounds of chatter dies away

and nothing is left and where are you now? Lost somewhere in the smallest

cracks behind the dumpsters and its all over before it began.

When I asked about the painter, a Saturday in February, somewhere between

four and five, the short curly haired woman behind the desk looked up and

said no, its not here. Nothing is here. Only a landscape portrait and its

not on display. To my surprise I found it. In British paintings not far from

Michelangelos drawings, up the staircase, the royal star and his royal ear

piece. And its already to late and instead we got lost in the section of patterns

and later found our way down where all the replicas stand, lying to the tourists.

They dont fool us. I know whats behind. What if it falls, you asked, where

would you run? Nowhere, theyre fake. Ill just catch them and force them back.

Nothing heres what it seems, a museum of phonies and forgeries. Even the

school of Athens knows it aint real.

6 1636. Oil on canvas. Windsor Castle, Royal Collection, UK

Portrait of James Stewart, Duke of Lennox and Richmond 7

Its 15.40, London, England. James Stuart the older carries the kings star on

his left shoulder, no sleep for days, time goes by too quickly. His black robe

awakes the darkness in his eyes, pulls it out makes it visible. His right hand

rests on the elegant animal by his side. Everything Ive read so far is not what

it seems, hyped up, kitsch, ultraviolent, not realistic and too big to swallow.

What about the stuff I see? On his feet grows black roses, one on each foot.

Why so pensive James? The clock keeps ticking & you dont age at all. Did they

dispose of you in the fields of Oxford? The ants are gone asleep by now out on

those plains. The stain on the carpet is still here even though Ive tried to wash

it off it sticks to my feet and my mind and sometimes to you and my head is

too small and my thoughts too big.

By