I kicked off Miami Art Week by visiting Peter Kappa’s Open Studio, which gave me a chance to see his newest work firsthand. I’m always excited to see Kappa’s new creations. He’s a very real artist–honest, intelligent–and it shows in his work. You can check him out at www.PeterKappa.com. Here are some pictures.
Feelin’ so musical. I think it’s the weather. Emily Wells, I love this woman.
Woke up too early. Came across this guy. I’m obsessed. Had to share.
One of my oldest friends shows up at my house last night at 12:45 am. She comes through the door with a bottle of chilled Prosecco, talking about Bukowski. She says, “It feels like I fucked him in another life.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying him.” I tell her.
While I paint, we talk and drink. The wine goes down easy, so we uncork another bottle from my collection. The stuff she says to me makes me cry, makes me cringe, makes my belly ache with laughter. It’s like rolling in a pile of dry leaves, popping the pockets of air in bubble wrap, smashing an empty beer can underfoot. It’s like that moment when you realize you could have died, really died, so you laugh so hard it becomes madness.
Later she reads me some of her poems. There’s a bite to her writing that I really dig. It’s raw. It meanders. It kicks. Just like her. I tell her she’s a wild horse, not the most original metaphor, but I’m 5 glasses in and that last bit of creativity is siphoned toward the hand still holding a paintbrush.
At 5 am, three bottles later and depleted of energy, we take a walk around my block to get some fresh air. I wear a long dress that drags along a street that’s freshly rained on. The night is humid, warm, maternal. We want to stay in it, breathe it in, live in it. I want to lie on the street, but everything is wet so we sit in my car and doze off.
This morning we wake up to the revelation that somehow she’s made it onto the sofa, and I am in bed spooning a handsome, six-foot German.
I seem to lose this poem over and over. I forget its name… I fish through the internet rivers, read dozens of Sharon Olds poems that aren’t “the one.” So I’ve decided to make it a bed here, a place where it can perform a million times–like a senile mind that retells a story each time as though it’s the first.
By Sharon Olds
Hitler entered Paris the way my
sister entered my room at night,
sat astride me, squeezed me with her knees,
held her thumbnails to the skin of my wrists and
peed on me, knowing Mother would
never believe my story. It was very
silent, her dim face above me
gleaming in the shadows, the dark gold
smell of her urine spreading through the room, its
heat boiling on my legs, my small
pelvis wet. When the hissing stopped, when the
hole had been scorched in my body, I lay
crisp and charred with shame and felt her
skin glitter in the air, her dark
gold pleasure unfold as he stood over
Napoleon’s tomb and murmured This is the
finest moment of my life.