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[19 JUNE 2008 / 08:37 PM] |
I chose the house for many reasons.
Because it seemed to have sprouted out of the earth like a tree, so deeply grooved it was within the old garden. It had no cellar and the rooms rested right on the ground. Below the rug, I felt, was the earth. I could take root here, feel at home with the house and garden, take nourishment from them like the plants.
The first thing I did was to have the basin and fountain unearthed and restored. Then it seemed to me that the house came alive. The fountain was gay and sprightly.
I had a sense of preparation for a love to come. Like the extension of canopies, the unrolling of ceremonial carpets, as if I must first create a marvellous world in which to house it, in which to receive adequately this guest of honour.
It is in this mood of preparation that I pass through the house, painting a wall through which stains of humidity show, hanging a lamp where it will throw Balinese shadow plays, draping a bed, placing logs in the fireplace.
Every room is painted a different colour. As if there were one room for every separate mood: lacquer red for vehemence, pale turquoise for reveries, peach colour for gentleness, green for repose, grey for work at the typewriter.
Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvellous.
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