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The Art and The Artist

How do you say what you mean?

How do you know who you are?

Art is my language. Of thought, feeling, reflection and doubt. Every art piece is made for (from) a person I know, a situation that happened, a feeling that passed. I sit around and listen to the world. Whatever comes out is this - an object, a creation.

I’m no one without my art. My art is nothing without me. Escaping the world, building a new one. Or maybe - retelling this one?

Taro is my dream.

(The artist awkwardly photographed; convention broken. Promises broken.) New chapter ahead.

Indochina, Capa jumps Jeep Two feet creep up the road To photo, to record, meat lumps and war They advance as does his chance, ohh

Very yellow-white flash A violent wrench grips mass Rips light, tears limbs like rags Burst so high, finally Capa lands Mine is a watery pit Painless with immense distance From medic, from colleague, friend, enemy, foe Him five yards from his leg

From you Taro, oh Do not spray into eyes I have sprayed you into my eyes

3:10 p.m. Capa pends death, quivers, last rattles, last chokes All colours and cares glaze to grey Shriveled and stricken to dots The left hand grasps what the body grasps not, ohh

Le photographe est mort 3.1415, alive no longer my amour Faded for home May of ‘54 Doors open like arms, my love Painless with a great closeness To Capa, to Capa Capa dark after nothing Re-united with his leg

And with you, Taro, oh

Taro, ohh

Do not spray into eyes I have sprayed you into my eyes

Hey, Taro!

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