Taking a roast chicken out of the oven, all glistening golden brown and smelling like celebration, no matter how often you've done it, there's a thrill. But when the two legs have been carved and eaten (discarding the delicious lethal skin) the celebration ends. The festive bird is just an amputated carcass, to be transformed tomorrow into sandwich, soup or salad. Nice, but not a thrill.
Isn't life a little like that?
No? Okay it was just a passing thought, when taking a chicken out of the oven.
The Burial of Mickey Mouse: Part 23
When I'm not at one of my part-time jobs - which now includes selling Brazilian handicrafts at a shop in Bond Street - I come and paint in the spare-room, the house quiet and still when T is at work. I've pinned to a closet door some sketches and clippings and I decide to do a painting of the door itself: a study of studies for an idea about an idea.