I knew Cathy VOGAN well.
I knew her in the courtyard of the building where 6 years earlier, we had
founded the only broadcast facility in France that
was dedicated to art - it was an extraordinary adventure where we had
given our all, and received so much in return. I was in the studio,
hacking at the shelves now laden with the many works of famous and unknown
artists who like us, had used magnetic tape to lay down their
dreams; their emotions; their fears, their despair; their life...
I bit
my fingers until they were bleeding; I screamed out her name; I thought
I'd never see her again. And then she appeared; a humble ghost limping
pitiously through the night, humiliated by cruel men. I held her tightly
in my arms and she fainted. She turned me into a creature of mud, and
then left again.
I
knew her from above: from a helicopter over the fertile canyons of Born
Dead Baby in the North-West of Australia. I was holding a camera in
each hand; she was down there in the tent, which they didn't have time
to fold...
I knew her in a Belgian hotel room. She was hanging from the window ledge,
laughing about letting go. It was unbearable and there wasn't even Canal
+ on the TV.
I knew her on a Sydney beach, watched her from the ocean bed, as polite
sharks devoured pieces of my flesh: she was walking along the sand, joking
with a certain Herr Doktor M. I knew her on a chair, on a table, on a
bed; in a plane to Japan; in long grass infested by deadly spiders in
the Blue Mountains; in the White Mountains under the oldest trees in the
world.
I knew her radioactive. We were a couple in fusion. By day we made love
like beasts on all fours over sophisticated machines. The night time too
was ours.
I knew her on a chair, on a table, on a bed; in a plane to Japan; in long
grass infested by deadly spiders in the Blue Mountains; in the White Mountains
under the oldest trees in the world.
I
knew her naked.................... I
knew Cathy VOGAN well.
|