When you surprised yourself in the mirror, when you became a stranger to yourself, who was the who you dreamt yourself to be?
̶ Mirror, mirror, tell no lies, how do I look in Picasso’s eyes?
Aghast, you stand before me as my vibrating vision seeks a place of rest; in the wild confusion of coordinates, all I find is sex. Look! Within the constriction of the picture frame, you’re exploded into five viragos, five Amazons of the archaic impulse, five avatars of eros. Through your orgiastic iciness your black eyes pierce, giving me no escape from engulfment. Look! Ground and figure reverse, voids solidify; contiguity begets distance, depth surfaces: Everything about you testifies to the excess of sex.
You jump in with a question for Diego:
̶ Would you agree that Picasso’s ceramics are the best things he did since Guernica?
Diego, a potter by day and a drummer by night, answers:
̶ I would. He lost the spark after that. Except for the erotic drawings!