In a way, every moment of epiphany is marred by the carnage of appropiation, the fecal work of creation: golden matter squeezed from that New Jerusalem glowing in the end of the day, in the cool blue dusk when the party is coming to a drunken end and unwanted visitors turn out at doorsteps left untended. Vincent and Paul never really set foot in America but dreamt of it… they failed or overshot their mark but left their fertile print… the birth of bastardly identity and the sensibility of the blackguard… from potato-eaters to mother-fuckers.
Did Rainer Fetting really retire after the 80’s and set up a fertilizer company? I’m sure he did. Paul Gauguin… ah, nothing but a great giver of equivocal advice… welcome to the club, baby. Your daddy’s on the floor… he’s certainly going to get some. And Vincent: do you think labor is painful, sugar? Fuck you, tell me about it… oh, and are those your sacred mountain- centinels? Not for long… the dark is setting and they are going.