The dude was a creative monster. No doubt about it. But the days when he was not creative, he was just a monster… a pathetic human being full of idiotic tics, invaded by viruses, psychological defeats, victim of intellectual thefts, philias and phobias, accustomed to digest sorrows sparkled with a manic-depressive ton of crumbs. Yummy mommy. Yum yum. What a treat. What a particular trade. What a ring of fire to jump across. An expert in the fields of destruction, the guy wrote the book on self deprecation, worn out principles, sulfuric acid and mental decay. Besides all that, from the interviews conceded to front page journalists, one would say the creative monster was an angel, a fallen angel demoted by an unfriendly God, a Lucifer sentenced to work at a Disney store… Condemned to twenty years of boredom, for trying to change the system from within. (Thank you Leonard). Articles, press, memorabilia, photos at home, different marriages, never a kid on the shore. In his past, a long list of indulgences: Alcohol, heroin, orgiastic sex… In his present, nothing but a dark cloud, a menace, a vein exploding here, an alienating tumour found over there. The creative monster, more than creative, more than a monster, became the self portrait of a ghost crafted beyond cubist deformation. Only history will tell who is who. But who’s history to tell.
Painting: Imaginaria I1 from Imaginaria