MY person has retired and from now on we will live like gypsies, because I work from anywhere.
Last night, a courier delivered Impossible Skies to the beach house in Hartenbos — the book Walter Meyer's brother Frans wrote about him. Thank you, Melinda Ferguson. It kept me up most of the night. This morning I've finished and my head is filled with images of a lonely, melancholic cowboy with an unquenchable thirst, filled with stark landscapes under impossibly blue skies.
On the back cover Meyer is referred to as South Africa's very own Vincent van Gogh, which made my friend, she with the huge collection of abstract South African art, snort contemptuously. But he was, in a certain sense: this world was never meant for one as beautiful as he was. He was a creative, tormented genius who neglected his appearance and looked like a bum. Who was unspeakably lonely and fanatically driven to create. Who was childlike, gullible and generous...
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