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That is not what I meant at all

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?


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