I love the way art folds in on itself, calls out to other forms, references seemingly disparate things. Something about this Cream - gathering shadows, the colors thrown up against the bleakness, the structure, reminds me of Eliot’s Prufrock. Especially the “yellow tigers/crouched in jungles/in her dark eyes” and all the tired starlings.
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?