Search words: The sea of Hiroshi Sugimoto, the land of Gauguin.
The old man on the small pony and I are lost in magnificence. A vibration of grays is the horizon.
Brilliant, endless whiteness over rich, deep blackness. No jets nor stars; no sun, no moon. Wind slowly flowing, waves repeating stories. We are in a long exposure. Sanur. Silver, platinum, water and sky... This rapture’s sudden punctuation: the reds of a butterfly.
A woman stands beside the pony. Her hand, her hair, the man’s old sunburnished legs and the animal’s solid nervous neck. She drops her hand and looks away from the sea. I look where she looks. Transfiction. A massive, delicate sculpture; puzzling and pulsing. Colors, colors, colors; they form a villa, make a jungle, create the impressions of space and light.This energy calls the woman’s name and she walks away. Her footprints are blue.
The man on the pony is Adrien Le Mayeur de Merpes, the painter. The bare-chested Balinese woman is Ni Polok. They married after she retired from dancing. She was 15, he was 53. I am Mr. Orgasm Donor; Odie. Reality TV star. The neurons in my hippocampus are loose. Bruce Jenner’s transformation fades in and out and the fading in and out becomes the last time I sat in Quincy Jones’ living room. “He was a poor black boy when I met him, and the last time I saw him he was a rich white woman.” He told the joke while tugging his sleeve over his big watch. Moulin Rouge was on his widescreen. Voulez vous cachez avec moi ce soir?
A deep breath; I am calm. There is logic, the dots finally connect. Le Mayeur’s life on Bali was a reality show. For magazines. My adult life has been a reality show. For TV. Jenner: a gold medal Olympian, produced the Kardashians, became a woman. Le Mayeur was the Last Impressionist painter; the host of cosmopolitan Balinese beach parties celebrating Charlie Chaplin or whatever star got off the boat. I’m famous because of a photograph of my wife wearing a wet sexy tee shirt before we went to the Bali Bombing.