People do not Climb mountains Because “They are there.” They climb them Because Life is meaningless.

OC: We’re delighted to feature you on Overhead Compartment and appreciate you taking the time to answer a few questions for us. Do you have any noteworthy obsessions?

WT: The inevitability of death. The indifference of the universe to our pain. Penguins. Bears. Insanity. Brutality. Mountains. Klaus Kinski. The sentience of yogurt. And cinema.

OC: What do you find yourself most often daydreaming of?

WT: Nonexistence.

OC: What was your introduction to the internet?

WT: WarGames, starring a young Matthew Broderick. As we all know, human civilization must be digitized so that, with one stroke, it can be deleted.

OC: If you were forced to paint all the surfaces of your home in a single, uniform color, what would it be? Describe your life in this monochromatic world.

WT: White, of course. All colors and the absence of color. The cold of space, the arctic dream. I wander into its vastness, frozen in a lake of ice, beyond the forgiveness of God.

Also, white goes well with modern furniture.

OC: We’re rather sensitive to our surroundings here at Overhead Compartment. Are there particular settings or rituals that you feel to be most conducive to finding concepts for your tweets?

WT: Cinema and all arts are birthed in pain, terror, and madness. Often it is helpful to see what’s on “Arts and Humanities Daily.”

Sometimes, though, I will look in forgotten places. Under the sink, perhaps.

Once, I recovered a bottle of gin. Fly-specked, shrouded in dust. I swam in seas of nostalgia, nauseous, then torpid.


Sunny and windy / today’s what my mum would call / a good drying day

There is what we know

as breathing

And what we know as breath

And the two don’t know each other

till one of them has left.

There are many things I did survive ( like certain choices taken because of the sufference and illness of a third person), but I could never survive the death of my own child. The Germanwings disaster made me think about.

Every moment is a golden one for him who has the vision to recognize it as such / Get busy living or get busy dying.

bette davis

“If nothing saves us from death, at least love should save us from life” 

Pablo Neruda

Catch me. I’m your disease.

Words and eggs must be handled with care.

Once they are broken they are impossible things to repair.

Anne Sexton

Sunday, bloody Sunday / A thinking woman sleeps with monsters

“Everything I do,” Louise Bourgeois said, “was inspired by my early life.”

Born in 1911, the French-American sculptor grew up in Choisy-le-Roi, just outside Paris. At a young age, Bourgeois took on the role of nurse to her mother, who succumbed to Spanish Flu after WWI, and at age 11, Bourgeois witnessed her father’s affair with their live-in English tutor, Sadie Gordon Richmond. These combined events left the artist with life-long psychological scars, memories that forged Bourgeois’ unique and disturbing oeuvre of giant spider sculptures and poured-plastic body parts.

Bourgeois’ experience was her art
Art was Bourgeois’ tool for coping. “I need to make things. The physical interaction with the materials has a curative effect. I need the physical acting out, I need to have these objects in relation to my body.” For her, “art is a guarantee of sanity.” Her works are naked and often anxious reflections of her unconscious.

L BourgeoisBourgeois was in psychoanalysis for 30 years
Bourgeois’ childhood traumas relate to her fear of abandonment, stemming from her mother’s illness and death, her father’s infidelities and the horrors of the first world war. Believing that she should somehow take her deceased mother’s place in her father’s affections, Bourgeois acted out the classic Freudian dilemma in extremis. In 1951, suffering from depression after her father’s death, she entered therapy. Despite profound skepticism, knowing that art was her direct access to the unconscious, Bourgeois craved the self-knowledge that therapy gave her and would undergo analysis up to four times a week. Her doctor’s death in 1982 ended the analysis, and the results are ambiguous. After 30 years of therapy, she never stilled her demons, nor dented her obsessive need to make art.

“I am my work,” she declared. “I am not what I am as a person.”

Bourgeois ran amazing salons
Bourgeois left Paris for New York in 1938, soon after marrying art historian Robert Goldwater. In 1962, the couple moved to Chelsea, setting up home in a  brownstone Chelsea apartment at 347 West 20th Street, which would be her residence for the rest of her life. Beginning in the 1970s, Bourgeois hosted Sunday salons at home where, for the next thirty years, students and young artists would come and talk about their work. Entry was open to all, with Bourgeois’ number publicly listed. “There were only two rules,” said Gorovoy. “You can’t have a cold, and you have to bring your work.” Bourgeois held these salons, which she dryly referred to as “Sunday, bloody Sunday”, on a weekly basis until her death in 2010, at the age of 98. Adapting to her environment with age, in her nineties the artist sat atop a wooden box and a pillow, to raise her high enough for her visitors to see her.

Bourgeois kept an extraordinary journal
Like drawing, writing was a compulsion for Bourgeois. She kept journals throughout her life, believing that “you can stand anything if you write it down… words put in connection and can open up new relations.” The three types of diaries – written, spoken (into a tape recorder), and drawing offer a glimpse into Bourgeois’ psychological states. “Diaries mean that I keep my house in order,” she said. Free associations and doodles suggest clues as to the personal relationships and conflicts that inform all her work, and seem to offer direct links to her creative process. In 1992, she wrote, “The work of art is limited to an acting out, not an understanding. If it were understood, the need to do the work would not exist anymore… Art is a guaranty of sanity but not liberation.”louise

People are the best show in the world. And you don’t even pay for the ticket.

Don’t undress my love you might find a mannequin: don’t undress the mannequin you might find my love.


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