PART 2 OF 2

Photo: Irving Penn, Vogue

Like many a Cure fan, I have a particular affection for Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me. It reaches far and ranges wide, holding one spellbound in its darkness and enchanted in its light. How to honour the music? Some make videos, others write poems; some engage in musicology, others goth up and get down. As for me, I offer this celebration, a refraction of Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me through a  variety of images as well as through extracts from my novel Mara, Marietta: A Love Story in 77 Bedrooms. It is my fervent desire that you enjoy the adventure; the comment box below awaits a trace of your experience. Are you ready? Let’s go!

Photo: Joel-Peter Witkin

Photo: Richard Avedon, Vogue

Liselotte sips the ruby-red darkness of her Valpolicella.

̶  So you see, Lilo, every artist has their own curse.

Over her grey eyes comes a blue cast; over her face, a shadow.

̶  Give me your hand.

I offer it to her; she takes it and examines the palm.

̶  You’ve got a double fate line, Sprague. These two parallels. It means you found your soul mate.
̶  I found her. And I lost her.
̶  Yes. Exactly as your palm said you would. Look.

I follow her finger as she traces the lines.

̶  Your heart line ends in a fork, but a branch drops down to touch the life line.
̶  Which means?
̶  Failure in love.

Furrowed field, barren land.

̶  So what can I do?
̶  Let me love you!

She’s got the cutest nose, Lilo. She’s the only girl I know who can show lechery with her nostrils.

̶  All right. Let’s go back to your place.

We went back to her place. She loved me. She loved me good.

From Richard Jonathan, Mara, Marietta: A Love Story in 77 Bedrooms

Photo: Corinne Day, Vogue

Photo: Steven Meisel, Vogue

̶  Are you thinking of Marietta? You are. I know you are.
̶  No Siri. I’m happy here with you.

She kisses me with the kisses of her mouth.

̶  Speak to me of her, Sprague.
̶  No.
̶  I can help you.
̶  No.

She puts on her glasses.

̶  Look, I’m wise as an owl.
̶  Siri, you’re so beautiful I could eat you!
̶  You already have. Now come on, tell me about her!
̶  No.
̶  Well read me something from your notebook then.
̶  No.
̶  Please!
̶  All right, fetch it. It’s in my jacket pocket. But you can read for yourself!

From Richard Jonathan, Mara, Marietta: A Love Story in 77 Bedrooms

Photo: T. Cé

Photo: David Sims, Vogue

̶  Come here, my love.

Softly swaying as you walk to me, the skirt of your dress highlights the tight-fitting top. I place my hands on your hips as you stand before me, I contemplate your face: Blue shadow, metallic sheen; edged in brown, a hard outline: In your eyes I am the fire. Redefined, darkened, arched and tapered out: In your brows I am the arrow. Cupid’s bow, mahogany; the light that lives in darkness: In your breath I am the spark.

̶  Marietta, you’d bring eyesight to the blind!
̶  And legs to the lame?
̶  Yeah!

You flick my lips with the tip of your tongue.

̶  I can’t go out with these sandals though. It’s too cold.

You step away.

̶  You’re really hot in them!
̶  Not enough to warm my feet! I’ll wear my ankle boots.

Does a man’s body holds less mystery for a woman than a woman’s body for a man? As you sit on the sofa, changing your shoes, I am moved by the grace of your movements. Such a simple act, sitting. Yet a woman has to master the art of crossing her legs without drawing attention to herself; she has to guard against revealing her tits: A man can plonk himself down any old how.

From Richard Jonathan, Mara, Marietta: A Love Story in 77 Bedrooms

Photo: Mert Alas & Marcus Piggott, Vogue

Photo: Steven Klein, Vogue

We spoke of Gram and our songwriting partnership; we spoke of how she mines her notebooks for lyrics while I begin with a rhythm of words, seemingly random phrases. We then spoke of Ingmar Bergman and Olaf Palme, the Columbine massacre and The Matrix. Gripping the cuffs of her shirtsleeves, Siri stretched her arms round her body in a self-embrace. ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ she asked me. I told her I didn’t, and summoned her to come and sit next to me. ‘Why don’t we just go straight to your hotel?’ she suggested. So we did.

Siri wore her nudity as unselfconsciously as she wore her clothes. She’d taken off her cinched-in waistcoat, her pirate trousers and workman’s boots; she’d taken off her shirt, socks, panties and bra, but she left it to me to undo her ponytail and take off her glasses. Doe-eyed and willowy, her hair down, she suddenly appeared much younger than before. When I saw, in the wavering gold and green of her eyes, that she had the kindness not to mask her vulnerability, I instantly found an attitude that allowed us to open the doors of pleasure. ‘God I was gagging for that’, she said when she’d come, ‘ever since I saw you last night’.

From Richard Jonathan, Mara, Marietta: A Love Story in 77 Bedrooms

Photo: Steven Klein, Vogue

‘Just Like Heaven’ and ‘Another Girl, Another Planet’ (The Only Ones) are kissing cousins. The affinity between the two songs is not as close as that between Radiohead’s ‘Creep’ and the Hollies’ ‘The Air That I Breathe’—Smith ‘introduced some different chord changes, which give it [‘Just Like Heaven’] that slightly melancholic feeling’—but they are nevertheless intimate in their attitude: a defiant elation that celebrates love, a prince of darkness momentarily donning a robe of light. (Peter Perrett’s Humanworld, by the way, is a superlative album I will celebrate in a future post.) R.J.

Photo: Steven Klein, Vogue

Kourken Pakchanian, Vogue | Belov, Firebird, 1982

̶  What I liked about heroin is that it allowed me to sit still and do one thing at a time. For the first time I could read a book in an orderly way.
̶  How did you use? Alone or with others?
̶  Alone. Never with junkies. And never on more than two consecutive days.
̶  I learned that trick too. And kept up my friendships! Hung out only with innocents.

The immediacy of her sensuality, her embrace of pleasure: The shine of her rapture abides, making her eyes sapphires.

̶  You liked sex too much to let addiction dull your senses?
̶  Exactly !

Ambergris and iris root, lemon gardenia and cedarwood: Her scent adds a new savour to her taste on my tongue.

̶  I gave up drugs when I met Marietta. Redoubled the energy of delusion!
̶  The energy of delusion?
̶  Tolstoy. When he was preparing Anna Karenina, he wrote in a letter to his editor: ‘Everything seems to be ready for the writing, for fulfilling my earthly duty. What’s missing is the urge to believe in myself, the belief in the importance of my task. I’m lacking the energy of delusion’.
̶  Courage?
̶  Yes. To submit to madness, to submit and resolutely endure.
̶  Well, I don’t know how mad you were when you wrote Self-Portrait with Sphinx...

The fervour of her mouth, the lushness of her lips: Bocca basciata non perde ventura, anzi rinnuova come fa la luna.

̶  …all I know is that I love it!

From Richard Jonathan, Mara, Marietta: A Love Story in 77 Bedrooms

Kourken Pakchanian, Vogue | Belov, Space Brothers, 1982

Photo: Annie Leibovitz, Vogue

̶  I never had a clear image of authority. My grandparents tried to play the role of parents. Never convinced me. My mum and I were more like sisters than mother and daughter. More complicity than obedience.

A black rose in a thorn wreath, her ring shows off its intricacy as she sips her drink.

̶  Not a model family! Probably explains why, very early, I began to throw everything into question.

I sip my martini: Wet stone and mild spice, the vodka comes through the bitter fruitiness of the blackberry.

̶   Reading sustained me. I could read at two-and-a-half. Never stopped since.

The black lacquer of her fingernails glints as she caresses her glass.

̶  I was a year ahead at school. They called me ‘frog eyes’, they tormented me. But I pulled through. I enjoyed learning. Did my homework with pleasure.
̶  And when did drawing come into the picture?
̶  End of primary school.

As she shifts in her chair, the butterfly in her sternal notch becomes a death’s head.

̶  Drawing allowed me to cultivate my taste for the bizarre. Became a new outlet for my imagination. Do you draw?
̶  No. As soon as it became clear that whatever I draw ends up looking obscene, I gave it up.

Lilo laughs. She takes my hand and traces the fate line with her fingertip.

̶  You have beautiful hands, Sprague.

I smile into her eyes, eyes no longer metallic but misty.

From Richard Jonathan, Mara, Marietta: A Love Story in 77 Bedrooms

Photo: Mert Alas & Marcus Piggott

KISS ME, KISS ME, KISS ME: THE CURE: A CELEBRATION (PART 1)

ROBERT SMITH, ROMANTIC SYMBOLIST: THE CURE & SYMBOLIST ART