I regret the day I left you,

I only did because I was suffering from a sickness,

Not the flu.

But severe sadness.

I miss everything you’d do,

To make me smile,

To make the good moments last for a while.

I miss living in your kind of lifestyle.

I miss how we were so close,

No miles.

I remember how we met,

And how we road the school bus.

I remember touching your jaw,

The long ride I was in awe.

Your beauty was unlike the rest.

You’d wear a vest

Of glowing joy.

You weren’t just a kind boy..

Everything I thought was destroyed,

Flaws and chaos,

You saw with beauty,

You enjoyed.

Your heart was truly blessed.

You never relied on stress.

You viewed life as a challenging quest.

I have surrendered and

I have sighed and

I have said sayonara

To you

What made you love me

I have to ask

I know why I love you but

Apparently, we’re not made for each others

There’s no such thing as “soulmates”

It could be the television? Might she have left it on this morning when she left for work? She could not remember having turned the set on, but then she couldn’t remember closing the bedroom door, either. A cold current of fear shot adrenaline upward from her tailbone, expanding through her chest, down her arms to spark her fingertips... an alert, something was not as it should be.

She didn’t normally come home for lunch, but she wanted him to find the bottle of “Old Fitzgerald Bourbon” when he got home. It was an expensive, and rare treat. He would be ecstatic!

She laid the card with its sexy message and the beautifully gift-bagged bourbon on the granite bar-top. “No,” she knew, “the sounds coming from the bedroom were not the television.” Her heart began a slower beat, a cautious beat, a life unravelling beat. A strange taste bit the tip of her tongue, metallic and sharp. She tip-toed to the door. It could not be... not on Valentine’s Day, of all fucking days?

Twenty years crouched behind that door, waiting to pounce. Can there be a fear greater than twenty years lost? Of a lifetime spent wasting? The door stared back at her with immeasurable dread. Twenty years of life, of love, and children raised. Twenty years working, and saving, and laughing. It just couldn’t be... not today. They had reservations for tonight at ’Velencia’s”, for Christ’s sake! They were supposed to grow old together. It was that time for them! Could he really be in there banging some twenty-fucking-something-year old intern?

But what if it wasn’t some intern? What if he was in love? Her mind raced, looking for missed clues. How long could this have been going on? He was with her on Valentine’s Day. What did that mean? Was it just an easy day for a star-struck seduction, or was there more to it?

Her lip was trembling now, joining her fingers. Her chest was weighted, crushing her breath. What if it was Lucy? What if she lost her husband and her best friend in one life-draining swoop? What would she do then? That would be unbearable, would it not? He and Lucy had always been close, casually flirtacious. They were even cute together, how they got along so well. “Oh, God... could she have been that blind?”

And what would she do? Not about the cheating, but with the rest of her life? She did not want to be alone. She loved her life, the life they had built together... she loved him! Perhaps she should sneak away. She could act like it never happened. The kids were at college, they would never have to know. These things passed quickly sometimes, if left alone.

There was a, “shush”, from behind the wall. They heard her. They heard something. She began to panic. Should she run? She reached for the knob, and threw the door open... loosing the beast that would devour her.

He always kept a coin in his pocket. A friend gave it to him; he assured me it was for good luck. But, I knew better. We keep this trinkets to link us to the Before; we are always blinded by what is behind us, by anything out of reach. Crippled by the future and paralyzed by the past, but I thought I understood the meaning behind its soft gold hue. If I could feel it, that meant my hand was in his pocket too, that meant I was close. I always wanted to be close. But, my feet are planted; I, too, remain stagnant. My trinket that keeps me grounded is not a coin nor a tangible trinket; I only need to close my airs and think of the press of your jeans against my hands or the soft whip of your hair, and I am home.

Betrayal

It lives in all of us

It hatches when needed

Dies when we say

But it waits in a dark place

A place where no one will look

So it survives and waits

Waits to strike

One room. Two artists with seemingly nothing in common. Born in

different centuries and reared on different continents. One a man, one

a woman. But both of them possessing a powerful and timeless devotion

to their own suffering that shocks, startles and seduces the viewer.

Tate Liverpool has treat us yet again with an unexpected yet seamless

curative combination…

Upon entering the exhibition the first thing that stood out to me was

the dark purple and blue painted walls, which seemed a strange choice

at first but later grew on me. The colours perfectly complimented the

beige of Egon Schiele’s paper and the crisp black and white of

Woodman’s photographs. White walls would have only served to pale the

delicate and light quality of both artists’ works. The exhibition

space was fairly small but then again so were the pieces. Most of

Woodman’s works were no bigger than postcard size.

The works themselves were a boundary pushing display of twisted bodies

and expressionistic melancholic sexuality. Woodman’s photographs were

ghostly self-portraits showing a brave amount of flesh for a woman in

the 1970s, for her it was not about the nudity but about the

simplicity of the naked form. She did not want to distract from the

diaristic emotion of the images. The theme of her photography cannot

be described in words, you simply have to look and understand the

terrifying emotions of such a turbulent young woman.

Everyone always says that Egon Schiele’s work is shocking, even in

modern times, with its display of both male and female genitalia and

sex acts. But I did not find it shocking; I found his work to be

incredibly beautiful. He has a unique vision of the human body and it

inspires many an artist, from Bowie to Tracey Emin. His entire life

long body of work was inspired by his two great obsessions: sorrow and

sex. His anguish displayed through bruised, writhing bodies and his

lust displayed by… well... sex.

I’m sure that most readers are aware of the work of Egon Schiele and

Francesca Woodman and as a photography student myself I have studied

both artists (particularly Woodman) in great detail. And standing

before the works that I had seen many times before was somewhat

underwhelming, the commercialisation and glorification of art somewhat

cheapens the real deal. My own knowledge caused me to miss out on the

exciting flurry of galvanisation caused by seeing new art. The

exhibition left me uninspired, which is a great shame.