The other night, I watched a documentary on Marcel Duchamp.
I'll be honest: I had always dismissed him as an artist craving attention in a bratty boy way. Mostly because of the urinal. But the documentary taught me a lot about him, and where one may find traces of his influence.
The most beautiful part of the documentary, however, was a brief side note of a story told by his (very senior now) grandson. It was about how, when his grandfather died, he watched his grandfather's casket go into the incinerator to be cremated. The box went in, and then they (he and his family) waited. They had to wait for the remains to cool so that they could be placed into a box.
Before they could leave, someone had to open the box in order to confirm that Duchamp's remains were, indeed, inside. That job had been tasked to his grandson. He took the box, which he described as the type of box an expensive whiskey might come in, and opened its lid. There, laying on the top of his cremated remains, were his keys. It was beautiful. The way his grandson described how fitting it was to find the tempt and symbolism of Duchamp's keys to be laying upon the dust of his human form.
(pause)
My mother was diagnosed with cancer, and has been given three to six months to live.
There is a strange, heavy pair of hands that grip my arms and pull them down toward the earth. The dirt, in particular. All day. Even when I'm not thinking much of anything.
be well; be loved,
k.
(image: Unknown via cosmicclusters Tumblr.)
*: As in, No Exit, the Sartre play. I think of it and its handmade hell, often.
