Falling like a feather from the summit of Wǔtái Shān.
In the room I came of age inside. The darkness and the quiet bred a secret private that let me dream of secret private things. In its gloom I twitched under fevered dreams, woke breathless from nightmares; fucked myself into a dizzy stupor in the middle of the day, the light illuminating weakly the newness that coated my fingers and my skin. It was a room of little light, of slow-burning discovery,; a dark and private sanctuary, framed to the north by twin pines.
Hans Wendt is a painter of watercolour tableaus — large representations of the deceptively simple studio subjects of paper, oil crayons, and lumps of clay. They’re framed up immaculately and without glass so viewers can properly take in the richness of colour upon creamy ground, surprisingly corporeal given the modesty of his material.
When they met, dad’s face was supersized among the exhilarating cacophony of blinking cosmopolitan space-age advertorial madness that is the universe of Tokyo billboards, part of the city’s seizuring fabric. My parents got engaged in a parked car and then immediately backed into a lamppost. The first five minutes of their relationship summarizes its totality.