Thursday, April 19, 2007
Perspective de l’artiste
Kofi Fosu Forson
The chef in white… The bride in white… The French maid in white… The surgeon in white… The tennis player in white… The party girl in white… The virgin…
The widow in black… Audrey Hepburn in black… Black bikini… Black party dress... Serena Williams in a black cat suit… Nicole Kidman in a black gown…
Georgia O’Keefe in black and white…
The punk musician with blue hair… The model with green lipstick… The cellist from North Carolina with red hair…
As a man, when you look at an attractive woman, what do you think about? Whether it’s a passport picture, centerfold, television screen, movie screen or flap of a novel, doesn’t your mind roam?
The mind ultimately races from her many histories to what it’s like to be in her company. Now imagine sitting in her presence, notice her eyes, smile, if with teeth, her perfume, natural body smell, her clothes and if allowed, the sound of her voice. When you speak, does she look straight into you? Is she smiling? Do you get the feeling she wants to touch you? If not, does she take any interest in you by not wanting to leave?
As a woman, when you talk to another woman, what do you think about? Do you recognize her greatness, as a mother, anchor woman, business owner, lawyer or doctor? Does her make up impress you enough to wonder if it’s Revlon? Is she more than just representative of the same gender or is she a friend, sister or business partner?
The diva, queen, princess, school girl, are all at once pure, marked by particular colors, affectations, symmetries, loyal to the assimilations of breasts and vaginal cavity.
The female body bends into a curve at the waist, sloping down along the thighs. The buttocks protrude into an oval shape.
Her features are pretty, from the eyes…a “la bouche.” The grandness of the hair forms as a frame to her face. When she pulls it back, it highlights her cheeks, eyes and the very face that she presents to the world.
To watch a woman comb the hair is a movie in itself. When she puts on make-up or brushes her eye-lashes, it’s done with care. All of this adds to her nature as doll, actress, ballerina and chanteuse.
Overshadowing the very element of woman is the goddess or Amazon woman. She is tall and well-endowed. Her breath is of heat. Her sex is a crowning glory of a person who gives life at the bosom or through pregnancy.
In her existence, the female is a query to every man’s fascination. Whether she walks into a room, stands naked or simply sits reading a book.
Man is forced to imbibe the nature of women into his art. That and sex are moments when he is able to guard himself against the prowess of the female.
Les Femmes…Elles sont tout...!!!
Friday, April 13, 2007
Kofi Fosu Forson
Erotico…That’s the name he had for me. He said I looked like a character in a Fellini film. I’ve never seen a Fellini.
There’s a tattoo on my left breast, another one on my back.
Look at me. Do I look like a virgin? I’ll have you thinking I was a model from an underground New York magazine.
I could easily pass for a special agent in a film set in New York…500 years from now. Boys with imagination fantasized about me. The neighborhood girls wanted to be me. I was rock and roll. Boys in the band begged for me. They loved me like it was law!
Men are funny. I sat next to this one guy. He leaned over and said, “I’ve been watching you for a while. I was wondering what you sounded like.” “I’m just a typical girl from Brooklyn.” He called himself a “word pimp.” He seduced every word before he spoke. He wasn’t New York punk. I respected him. I didn’t desire him.
He took me to a French café. He was charming. All of a sudden, he ran out. I sat there thinking…This man is treating me like a goddess. He paid attention to me. He looked me in the eye. He came back with a flower. I showed him the tattoo. My fingers pulled my shirt over and to the side to expose the tattoo. I honored him. I didn’t desire him.
He was an artist. He asked me to pose for him. I promised myself not to take my clothes off. We got together in a room. I watched as he held a pad and pencil in his hand. He took his time, told me to move my head a certain way, keep my shoulders still. We weren’t making love but I felt love. I felt him liking me, respecting me. There wasn’t a thing he couldn’t do. He owned my beauty. For the moment, it belonged to him.
I was officially a muse. Paintings of me! Drawings of me! Poems about me! It wasn’t infatuation. If he wanted me, I would have known.
What does a woman do in a case like this? It is difficult when somebody wants you. Not on his bed but on his canvas. That’s what I was to him…A strange and beautiful woman dancing with butterflies.
Copyright Horatio Monologues
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Death of L’Amour
Kofi Fosu Forson
I look at an unusually curvaceous Japanese woman and I immediately think love is dead.
This blessed figure of love is reduced to the lowest common denominator. At first, she is of culture. She is Japanese. At once her body resembles that of an ethnic woman. As per the demonizing of the flesh, she is disposable. What would be blessed before the eyes of an artist…That this being is sculptural…has lent itself to the machinations of a fantasy.
Am I in love and politely refusing to recognize it? Or is it true that the rendering of the unusually perfect woman is equated not with lustful fever but the body as conquerable, much the way of the imperialist.
I’m not in love. I am chaste. This allows for the churning of societies plundering and pillaging. It is a form of absorption and manifestation.
The brick by brick layers which continue to exist within our conscience given the construct of pop culture, politics and socio-politics are detonated. One is led to realize do we lead or conform?
If love is dead, how then do we populate the world with a common understanding? It is not religion that governs, neither is politics. The metamorphosing of the soul builds character. And yet the body is a trap. Most people are left to entrust upon others fears, desires and hatred best explored within the realms of spirituality, Zen or an examination of love as conscientious.
What would lead one to say love is dead? Could it possibly be that by transforming from the general appeal of love, one demystifies the funk applied to love and finds a singularly palatable expression of love in its purest form.
Does the Japanese woman reach a conclusion in the mind as a person other than a conquerable “thing?” It is very much a matter of dominance and betrayal. Her body is a threat. It broadens the thought of terrorism and nuclear warfare.
Do we intellectualize the beauty of a woman or must we continue to conquer and claim territory?