Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Lady Mallouk
Kofi Fosu Forson

Suzanne Mallouk and I met in the circular seating area in front of Hunter College back in the mid nineties of Clinton’s America. Literature made sense. I was in the same class as Emer Martin, the Irish writer.

I sat next to a pretty woman who immediately let out a heavy sigh. I promptly told her that every thing was going to be alright. We fell into conversation. It wasn’t long before she told me she was Jean-Michel Basquiat’s former lover.

My initial impression of her was that she was precocious. She looked important, not enough to attract unnecessary attention. She accompanied me that evening to a reading where I read from my novel in progress. While I stood up on stage reminiscing about gorillas, she and I made eye-contact.

During the intermission, we went for pizza. I recollect us attempting to cross the street. We almost walked into each other. This to her was a sign of genius. Inside the pizzeria, Suzanne wiped off her thick red lipstick. More so without make up, she had the most beautiful face I had ever seen.

It was a wonderful evening, so I suggested Suzanne and I take our troubles downtown. In front of her apartment I stood while she went upstairs to change. She brought with her books featuring Basquiat’s art and a photograph of the two lovers to prove that she was indeed who she said she was.

Days later, I tried to make sense of our meeting. I invited Suzanne to a party honoring Emer Martin. Suzanne was the prettiest woman in the room. She did everything to fight off the women who approached me.

For that evening alone, Suzanne Mallouk and I were friends and I was in the company of history. I ran into Suzanne years later. She had furthered her goal as a doctor and was practicing.

For the blessed beauty of Downtown New York to commit to the practice of medicine, life is beautiful and we all grow up to be cowboys.

Monday, August 27, 2007

Disillusionment of Money

Kofi Fosu Forson

To be bankrupt! Do we earn the right to be penniless, first or are we at a disposition to be constantly in need of money?

Does an artist ever claim bankruptcy? Is a work of art ultimately equivalent to money? If the mind is based on philosophy, can intellect be synonymous with money? Meaning percentage of currency applies to intellectual wealth.

Therefore should an artist with a PhD. automatically merit the dollar? Symbolically intelligence is synonymous with money. What artists if any lay claim to this philosophy? Most artists yearn a million dollars for a piece of work.

Language befallen the artist in modern day is one of fame. The artwork takes on an all too grandiose interpretation, formulating its philosophy as something commercial other than the notion once shared through popular art: - That in order to be an artist one had to sketch. Conscientiously, the artist’s philosophy subjects itself to wealth. The overall speculation is then not about the finished work but the detailed philosophy behind it.

If I’m to celebrate this generating of modern philosophy in art, then I’m sure to find an understanding within the self as neo-, formulaic and semiotic. Language will forever apply principles, not of Art History, but rather ramifications found in the ideology.

Advertisement hovers over the psyche of any named artist. The future then will be to decipher and detract the commonality in terms of subcultures, race, gender and the overall tone of a nation, community or continent.

The dynamism of art is ready for a new revolution. It however stems from a perfunctory attitude which in the current state throbs.

Art Education prepares the artist. The notion of what follows is ultimately worth a buck per thought. Imagine a million bucks worth of thinking and still not be able to produce the Mona Lisa.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Venus and the Demystification
of Black Love

Kofi Fosu Forson

“Venus fell before my eyes in black leather pants. Her hair was blonder than blonde like the girls in the band.”
Kofi Fosu 1996

What is the color of love? Does Melissa Auf Der Maur dream of athletic black boys? I fell in love with Fernanda Eberstadt’s voice. I saw her photograph and then I knew. I read her novel Low Tide. The love affair began. I can say the same for Laura Cantrell and Ute Lemper.

Who are the Venuses of your life, I ask of men? Displacement brought me to the conclusion that I’m a man of the city with a country heart…Reasons to believe that Dolly Parton was an aunt in a past life.

What does the white female represent in the black male? Is there a normal form of dialogue? I believe if this is so, then it’s ingratiated as a typical conversation between two people.

I’ve known the white female as an actress, model and muse. Our language is strained between art, love and gender politics. There’s a constant balancing of sex and friendship. The only resolve is to commit or cancel any further interactions.

What interpretation if any do white females have of black males? Is there a conclusion drawn as to what is “black” and what is “white” and how do we reach a compromise?

The positive images of blacks in the media are few and far between. If a young and impressionable white girl gets her ideas on black men it’s usually from the young black classmates at school, actors on television/ movies or black pornography on the internet.

Education and intellect should then be the focal point in keeping a dialogue between white females and black men. Otherwise most white women will have a biased opinion of black men. We will then be subjected to images of the black man as a thoroughbred and the white female as submissive.

Venus did fall before my eyes, not as porn star but as a vision of beauty and intelligence.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Femur to Fang
Kofi Fosu Forson

Femur to fang if ever a vampire had options, the neck would remain bandaged from blood.

Affectionate girl makes her acquaintance, talks about a project. In it people fall down, drunken bar-brawls to skateboarders. I, the ever willing collaborator. She, the photographer.

Among books by Nan Goldin, Ballad of Sexual Dependency, Kathy Acker, Blood and Guts in High-school, we stacked them, piled them, read them, unbeknownst to the manager.

Every male clerk wanted their hands on my new subject. Little did they know she and I frequently met. We read from original scripts. Not only was she a subject, she was an actress and model. At times, she came to visit me early in the morning. I fed her pancakes made of wheat. We began reading poems I had written, recording them onto audio tape.
Her voice was milk.

One night, we toyed with a Polaroid camera. Before the evening was over, she had figured me for a black gentleman in a black cloak. Hers was as a literary groupie, muse of mine.

Our sing-song went on for a mature matter of months. If put to music, there’ll be a winding guitar a la Scott Johnson, wailing as she and I sat over gin, fell onto both our beds, waking up to begin again what we had started the night before, centering ourselves, forming into a circle in a square.

Her voice in the electric light! My breath as the source of life! Conversations between this black male and younger white female, both experienced in their places of work, model to photographer, artist to muse was ne’er gossip blossomed as professional relationship but summoning her femur, pale thigh, would cross the dimensions of art, the language between artist and muse, should they choose to speak what began as innocence to then reach proportions of literary vampirism.

Femur to fang if ever a playwright had options, the blank page would then be filled with blood red ink, a tale about a schizophrenic and her love for alligators.

“Be sweet. Be true. My Lord is a mouthful.”
“Be sweet. Be true. My Lord is a mouthful.”

Sunday, August 12, 2007

The Body Hunger

Kofi Fosu Forson

New York is a city of damage. It wears on the skin like wire. Only the strong survive. Ego begets subversion in the relationships between men and women. In postmodernist terms, women at will force themselves onto men.

Language between the genders is no longer a clogged artery. Much can be said for the media’s influence. That language as a virgin we seduce has to be interpreted literally and figuratively. The mind serves up lunacy versus lucidity, lust versus chastity.

A trip backwards to birth or do we begin at death finding our way towards eternity? Life lived is henceforth experienced a second at a time. A lot can happen in a second. The banality of sitting opposite a woman in tears with pretty feet on a New York subway car! Nonchalance becomes every passenger. To then shout along “You have perfect feet” removes any form of innocence.

Much the blame in an executive business woman sitting across from a young punk, an experienced gentleman from a teenaged girl! Movies formulated in the mind are meant as murder or pornography. Do we ever intercede? Philosophy is my heroin, my coitus cunt. Life and death in a New York City second brings one closer to eternity.

Death is not eternity. Death is dismissible. Death exists only if life exists.

The crush of life! It began as darkness. Visibility in the light must be accompanied by torment. A New York summer’s day, hot and humid and the curse of emotional and physical vehemence! A day in the life of a New Yorker knows much anger, frustration, condensation and found trust in a cup of coffee.

Seamlessly, we are offered a page in another book. Confess to unavoidable sins or push the libido into a limitless bank. Crawl if we must but then we remain subservient.

What is our attainable goal? I read a novel a word at a time, paint a picture stroke by stroke. To measure a life by seconds would lead most people towards insanity. That is the measure of brilliance, embracing insanity to the point of luminescence.


Wednesday, August 08, 2007


Kofi Fosu Forson

I’m honest. No, I really am. If I’m attracted to you, I’ll let you know.

It wasn’t that way with her. It was something chemical. I say “chemical.” Actually all I wanted was to plug her. It never works out that way…Not at a party. You don’t just go off into the bathroom and have a go of it. I’ve heard stories. There were some real reputable people here. She was all lit up…like a Christmas tree. Everywhere on her body were lace, pearls and gold. Our eyes met. I took a sip of my cocktail. I don’t think her smile could have been any brighter.

What does it mean when the woman makes the first move? Is it my fault if she’s leading me on? How far can I go? She pinned me up against a wall. Her left arm was tapping the wall. There was no music at the time. I guess she was getting impatient. I asked her why she didn’t have a cocktail in her hand. She goes, “Then would I be able to do this?” That was our little secret. Let’s just say the ear makes for a strange orifice.

Some people know what to say. We’re on the phone having a normal conversation. She’s got me talking in a way I never imagined. I’m saying things about her body. I had never seen her body. Not that way. She’s breathing. I’m talking dirty. One month into the relationship…I made her cum…of all places, on the telephone. I’ve since tried it on other women. It never works. That’s the same thing as having sex on opposite sides of the planet. You lie there naked. Concentrate on each other’s bodies. Breathe in and out. Somehow, some way, you reach a climax.

I know a writer who gets high after each manuscript. Can you imagine having sex with your characters? I’d never understand. The word “tit” on a piece of paper can give some men a hard-on. Sue me! I have no imagination.

Copyright Horatio Monologues

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

Dora Maar, Mon Amour

Kofi Fosu Forson

The language of love is greater when one is possessed by language and then love. Women find their way into the hearts of men who exist on a vowel, tone and temperature.

Passion, comma…What else deserves a better pronunciation than the signature at the bottom of a painting!

“Inventing a word placed in a dictionary is greater than becoming President.” (Bill Beckley) “I deserve the most beautiful woman in the world.” (Kofi Fosu)

Dora Maar, mon amour. I have known in essence, woman emerging as beautiful, sexual and miserable. The language of love results in a painting. Is it the painting that’s outstanding or is it the woman? As a woman is she worth more on the canvas or as feminine and female? What is the role of woman given prospects of an artistic setting? Is she female or is she a muse void of sexe?

Man is male. Thusly the artist is male. Separating male from artist is impossible. The restraints that border sex and masculinity are rendered as soluble. The experience therefore is explained within the language as artist to muse, masculine to feminine and as lovers. Circumstances feature only the artist to female or male muse. That then is par for the course.

There are some who live art emotionally and intellectually as a disease. These are not artists but those who follow art. They get involved as models, as an audience, muses or as some would say, “art-hags.” The experience is much equivalent of a “high”. Drug and celebrity culture are in keeping with this experience. To say I was at a party with Paulina Porizkova is similar for a woman to say she sat as a model for a painting.

Many of these women live off the fame of designated artists. It demeans the relationship the artist has with his muses. That is an exclusive language. There are moments of ambition, innocence and seduction, carrying over to dedication and intervention.

Art is indeed therapy which restores the sensibility of even a woman led astray by false promises, betrayal and defeat.

Women choose not a lover in artists. They fall in love with the person. For the artist to speak the language of art, he will be seduced by everything made possible.