SCOTT HENRY ELLIOTT’S ESSAY
(Junk Love, two-person show, Annarumma, Naples IT)
In those days of summer which reached forty degrees and higher, the white cats seemed to be particularly prolific. These scorched ghosts lurked among the streets and I couldn’t but help envision each one as a sort of pure white grim reaper, ready to pounce at any moment.
I remember the day we both decided to embark on this draining course of action.
“Do you want a holiday home? Yes or no?”
It was a rather rudimentary question, but the domino effects afterwards were not those I had envisioned. In a haze of sun-bleached perfection, it had all seemed like such a good idea. It was that New York energy again, that one I left behind in the summer of ‘69, I can do anything and I will! Where had this bliss disappeared to? In the ether dissolved their spark, something they both embraced silently.
Slow it all down.
Hold your horses.
Steady on there, my friend.
Reality had a much slower tempo and it suited them down to a T.
You shall make three windows on each wall, light should be a priority. My memory superimposes squares of sensual blues together, set perfectly into the wall. Together we add poetry to stone, the surfaces now mirroring the ripples along your spine.
How does it feel?
Pay for it later
Put it on credit
Do you accept debit?
Its purpose would change, the form remaining close to that which was intended. Neither of them knew how to construct a stable home, a solid capsule to contain them in. It was to become a transformer of sorts, holiday home slash tomb, or perhaps this is the true form, a doubled sided sword, never admitted by those inhabiting the idea. This was how it was to be built. The length should be thirty cubits; it’s breadth ve cubits and its height three cubits. There was to be one dominant window facing the sea, the rest of the building would be encased in concrete. Any wood included in the construction would be cypress wood, a wood perfectly suited to the harsh climate that left them both sitting in grey, saggy denim.
Scott Henry Elliott