by Christos Polydorou
I’ve noticed you’ve been wearing a lot of black.
I am more self-conscious of the colours I am wearing now that I am older.
Is it because of sorrow, that you are wearing black?
When I am sad I wear blue.
Why do we wear black so often, in our villages, in our towns, in our cities?
A double brushstroke.
Privacy and exhibitionism. It is a symbol, if you will, of modern life.
Have people remarked on you wearing black any time you’ve worn black?
Mostly all of the time. One of the earliest and most memorable remarks I had gotten regarding me wearing black was a question when I was seventeen, whether or not I was also wearing black underwear?
I remember clearly that I was not. And I also remember lying and saying I did.
Because it was important to me to seem authentic. And also because I had it in me, that I had something to say about style. But finally because, I wanted, so badly, so whole-heartedly, so emotionally, to be an artist.
Did you become an artist?
I assume so.
Because I was with a lover the other day, who remarked that only an artist could get away with turquoise green Y-fronts. There was a definitive, auspicious, personal moment for me a few years ago, in 2011, when I “picked” two colours, as we all find ourselves, picking two, for our foundations: the sky, and the sea. Turquoise blue, and turquoise green. This was a big deal to me because until then I had been wearing black.
Tell me the truth, it was more than just a double brushstroke, wasn’t it?
It was a type of self-effacement. I wanted to be nothing more than a wallflower.
However you discover that sometimes, even rich white women with thirty eight guns, when delusional, will begin shooting at the flora and fauna, in their wallpaper.