Monday, December 19, 2005

Jarman and Mapplethorpe

I recently found the first edition I've been looking for of At Your Own Risk by Derek Jarman. I've waxed liyrical before about Jarman's writing and, for all that he was a creature of the 70s and 80s, it is the directness, the simplicity of tone, the pain and the eclectic mix of pleasures Jarman explores from sex and politics to alchemy and art that make this writing timeless, spiritual in the broadest sense, and profoundly moving.

Like this from At Your Own Risk which is one of a series of elegaic paragraphs about people Jarman knew who had succombed:

Robert Mapplethorpe:

Robert 'who cares a fuck about photos' - they came two days after we rushed into bed. Flesh was your passion, not the silvery prints.

I sat at a table when you hustled Sam who had 'discovered' photography then discovered you.

Then you hustled your way right out of my life, but, passing me as the dawn broke over Heaven you said, 'I have gotten everything I ever wished for. What did you get, Derek?'

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