Drawing (540) from THE BASIS OF MAKE-UP

Sun, clouds, wind, grass, water, a staircase, a door, a window and three terraces. The view of a dream house in Nebraska hastily painted in 1978 anticipated the terraces in Nadur that would lie even closer to the clouds forty years later. The household is watched over by a Germanic man on a playing card swinging a club, who was replaced in films by James Bond and his license to kill; and he in turn in real life by self-authorized warriors of the opinion that their God is great. The niche we inhabit condemns us to be in delightful equilibrium with life and is as such emblematic of the brittle sphere of an existence suspended between heaven and earth. Manned space travel is damned to be propagandist idiocy to which a few astronauts’ lives fall victim every few years. May Elon Musk have himself shot in the direction of Mars and be celebrated so as to see himself as a wretched survivor before finally being forgotten. One would prefer to not to mention the rats that leave the ship first after having infested it


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