Sunday, October 13, 2013
Nabokov adds that "the initial shiver of inspiration" for Lolita "was somehow prompted by a newspaper story about an ape in the Jardin des Plantes who, after months of coaxing by a scientist, produced the first drawing ever charcoaled by an animal: this sketch showed the bars of the poor creature's cage". Neither the article nor the drawing has been recovered. The story of Gilgamesh could be seen as about the pursuit of life only being informed by its eminent demise. The drawing included is from memory of the city gates here in St. Augustine. The view is looking north. There is a ghost story about a little girl who fell to her death by playing on the coquina walls there. I randomly included this recent drawing and tried to give this arbitrary association meaning. I guess the story of Lolita is about a ghost of sorts. Recently in a critique of BA students art work the topic of Lolita came up. One of the female students has chosen to illustrate pictures of her friend dressing up in the manner of gothic Lolita, a trend made popular in Japan. To the left in the drawing is the start of the palm tree cubo line. I have taken the liberty of moving the towers 30 yards back so that the duck would have adequate space to clog.
- Russell Maycumber
- St. Augustine, Florida, United States
- Spawned in the sub tropic Eden of North East Florida, I grew up hearing my grandfather spin coquina crusted yarns about voracious horizons and sandy roads through cool green tunnels of magnolias, full of floating bruised blossoms the colors of debutante gowns and Bourbon sweet teas.These were the stories of the old man and his friends making their way in this scrubby ward of crackers and carnies, fishing with dynamite, carving agency from the landscape with a rusty dredge and brine pickled wit. The more I recall the more I realized how much I inherited this compulsion to scratch my own name in the church pew of tomorrowland. Colossus imagined or real inspires none the less. I look to a past for some answer to my own compulsions. I come back to the only real constant, the story. I have tried direct narrative but stalled in the parking lot of Motel Dilettante. Groping with half understood elements of the trade I found the respite of abrupt skits and painful theatre. I persisted and sketches started mulching around the legs of my flat pack kitchen table I use as a studio. I started to blog these moments spent spilling ink this way.