Bach, Mozart, Chopin, Rachmaninov, Brahms, Vivaldi, and Bartok to name but a few in her classical repertoire. The contrast could not have been more extreme. By day, the aristocratic hushed marble of the conservatoire of Paris, by night, the hazy condom aluminium ridden floors of the “bas fonds” of the Montmartre gothic scene - why does she need the beats of a formless code? By day, perfecting her classical sounds on scales of divine grace and pure light, by night, unwinding her daily scales in dark alcoves of languid exuberance - why does she line up the white lines on broken plated mirrors?
The classical form, as opposed to the bubble gum Pop “form”, is a ruthless master and urges a sadomasochistic discipline far beyond the Marilyn Manson frame of reference. One is touched by a sonic perfection that few survive. Very few classical femmes survive beyond a mere playing of a set-piece of “classical music” - why does she crave these red of silver bound nights? So aristocratically contained in her conservatoire, so soiled and boundless in her alcoves of sinking velvet and flowing white - why does she abide to the binding knots of silk and leather?
By day everything about her is classical: form, grace, light and clarity, all refined and combined. By night nothing classical remains, all discipline and form is sacrificed to the altar of excess.
...then...darkness prevails. Sunken eyes out of formless orbs accentuate her senses, enticing others to erotic deliriums - why does she crave the pain of pleasure thorns so much?
Here in the serpentine enclaves of Montmartre’ ultraviolet underworld female figures of a whiter shade of pale await their male affinities with silvery eyes: a sacrifice to the negative shadows of the unformed and the formless...
...those same hands of classical discipline and grace synchronised for piano and violin touch hidden scales of flesh so acutely libidinal that it is a crime to whisper more than words. She emerges from the semen pit as a flowing goddess of molten lava. Crystallised and mineralized, she spends hours upon hours washing it all away in bath fountains of steam and sparkling water to the surrounds of the techno beats sounding their throbbing hard drives above...in the pleasure domes...
She washes it all away until an immaculate conception is restored. Rejuvenated and restored as a dream within a dream, she is ready for the sunshine outside to greet her with all the classical form that the sun god Apollo can bestow - but for how long is this restorable? Excesses have way of leaving memory traces that eat you alive from within…
The female kind is anxiously traversed by outlandish desires, untold pulses, and ramblings of unfulfilled longings. The female unconscious is a liquid topology overflowing tropical surfaces. A topological surface distorted by luscious flower wishes, verdant plant pulses, and entangled vegetations of unspoken desires - for most of the female kind, mere translucent wishful images superimposing themselves, from time to time, over their cow grazing consciousness - for others a lifelong ecstasy quest of ever receding horizons…
