Marry me stranger

Lets's be glad that finnaly we are rid of these hundred years of ivied Modern Art in which the question, is that figurative or abstract art, is it shit or "the finest of the fine", has dominated every conversation whether at the kitchen table over the third piece of toast and strawberry jam or after two nights of MTW and canned beer. Or were there a couple of other questions as well...I like to ruminate in the dark.

Do you too dream of caravans in endless deserts and of concrete canyons in big cities seething with life?

We were on our way in the lovely day to day overlooking the front yard, the little concrete houses that hide the separate garbage bins from our neighbors whom we did not choose personally; from ourselves whom we did not choose personally, from ourselves whom we did not move to this planet of our own freewheeling, and from all the cats that realy want things simple and what's more less of the complicated letting ourselves be dominated by the question who's taking the garbage down when in the reaches of the sky the merest jetstreams effortlessly leave behind the pictures we always wanted to paint.

Where is our limit in the face of so much "same-old-success" so much "silent panic" that permeates our quiet studios far removed from Chlichy, Montparnasse, Estellenches or Brooklyn.

The telephone rings - non of us answers - everybody's home - the answering machine goes on - it's Zeus - he's looking for Europe.

Ultamarine beyond the Cinderella evergreen.

At one time the world was a slice, the vatican had the orbit(al movement)s under control. The rhythm of the oars was dictated by gallery supervisors whit whips and absolut terror reignet behind the Viking's shields. Or isn't it about slices, round world models, tondi, globes, that deny the traditional Ideal of family pizza in ist original form...?

A slice of perception. They are so thin. All eleven of them. One is always missing or gets sentenced to the Unfinished Pile. The twelfth betrays the thirteenth. Give it away now ! They are brightly colored and they show what Raffael or Leta have already painted once way back then. This décolleté shows a fisheye view through a porthole into the interior of a whale. The outside world. The fugitive loses her way through sheer disorientation. Nobody wants to believe that I and myself are the same. Some things we really do not like at all, things we think we have to believe. Unavoidable things like death or the rent are allways around and we are allways cough in the middle of the moment. We do not satify our own standard of ethics - not always. But Truth. Sorry, we apologize. We may be glad that we live in seemingly safe socialized Central Europe, amidst relatively high mountains. We're feeling sluggish - too much information (looks like we haven an o.d. here). But the information is not new (sorry, d.o.a.). We never knew the world any other way. We wish it to be thus and to paint these wishes means betraying them. That must be the reason.

Finally we have them on the wall - disentangled. Leta painted them - for all of us.
Jigsawed bubbles with artificial intelligence, properly arranged units of an endless JoJoDomino conglomeration.

(The) makeup artist's dream(s). Red contact(s), forgotten traces of lipstick. A conspiracy of poses and positions. An asylum that seems timeless and true because it rests poised on a single moment. A moment of artifice distilled from life - frozen for that slinky ikling of clairvoyance.

O age, o youth, o time. Useless. Timeless

"They returned her pair of shades and asked her once again to place her left hand behind her back and slide it up her spine until one could see the bone between the neck and shoulder more clearly. They wanted to see the collarbone, "clavicula". Relaxed and uninhibited, she flashed a bone from the submarine neckline of a simple though expensive mohair pullover - such a flash that the genuine Moroccan earrings could make all the dunes of the sultry Transsahara sprrrring! Out of a suburb of marseille. The wind was generated by an emergency power plant. Everything was real."

It is our age, billboarding freedom, trumpeting the importance of seperate work and leisure time, that demands: Always be prepared for a discussion.
In fact, supposedly in magic moments the distance between the artist and his oeuvre is blurred by a shuddering authenticity.

We are not perfect - but we play one hell of a game
Fill me up with your wonder - give me my rapture today.

"We should also have painted the base of the garage wall, that part that borders the neighbor's garage roof. The plaster on the other side didn't need painting because of all the spots, discoloration, and other minor flaws, after all only we could see it so it couldn't bother our neighbors. It was the worring, if the shade was a perfect mach or not - that got us going and quickend our breathing. Even unto the advancing twilight still we were not satified. We were painters. Dizzy with the help of conservational reasons, a few really important questions regarding our future were swimming around in our heads, not the least of them being: Are we going to bed or back to bad painting?"

Leta's mind is made up.*
**Nike of Samothrake has lost her head. (That's what she get's). Just desserts.

Axel Heil, Germany
Catalogue text from Leta Peer, Tondo, edited by Axel Heil, Karlsruhe 1997
Translation: Fumiko Wellington, Hawaii