Don't talk to me about Matisse
Lieku prezentācijā vēl vienas gleznas attēlu ar atkailinātu (nevis kailu) sievieti un nesaprotu, kas bildē ir tik greizs. Odalisque. Viņa nejūtas ērti. Vai māksliniekam būtu paslīdējusi roka? Nu ne jau Matisam, ne jau Ingres! Sieviete vienkārši noguldīta neērtā pozā. Šrilankas sieviete. Šrilankas? Kādēļ viņai mana ziemas ādas krāsa? Kas te nav pareizi? Tā ir eiropiete. Tā nav eiropiete. Tā ir Cits. Tā ir ne-es. Tā nav Eiropa. Un tomēr. Oriental gaze. Nekad, nekad mēs viņus neredzēsim pa īstam. Vienmēr no malas. Nekad es nevarēšu runāt par viņiem pa īstam. Man nav instrumentu, man nav viņu vārdu, lai es viņus varētu aprakstīt. Bezcerīgi. Romantiķi mēģināja. Modernisti, mani mīļie modernisti mēģināja. Cits atzīst par sliktu esam. Bezcerīgi.
Don't talk to Me about Matisse
Don't talk to me about Matisse, don't talk to me
about Gauguin, or even
the earless painter van Gogh,
& the woman reclining on a blood-spread –
the aboriginal shot by the great white hunter Matisse
with a gun with two nostrils, the aboriginal
crucified by Gauguin – the syphilis-spreader, the yellow
obesity.
Don't talk to me about Matisse –
the European style of 1900, the tradition of the studio
where the nude style woman reclines forever
on a sheet of blood.
Talk to me instead about the culture generally –
how the murderers were sustained
by the beauty robbed of savages: to our remote
villages the painters came, and our white-washed
mud-huts were splattered with gunfire.
Don't talk to me about Matisse, don't talk to me
about Gauguin, or even
the earless painter van Gogh,
& the woman reclining on a blood-spread –
the aboriginal shot by the great white hunter Matisse
with a gun with two nostrils, the aboriginal
crucified by Gauguin – the syphilis-spreader, the yellow
obesity.
Don't talk to me about Matisse –
the European style of 1900, the tradition of the studio
where the nude style woman reclines forever
on a sheet of blood.
Talk to me instead about the culture generally –
how the murderers were sustained
by the beauty robbed of savages: to our remote
villages the painters came, and our white-washed
mud-huts were splattered with gunfire.
Lakdasa Wickramasinha