(I was rather inebriated when I wrote this, tired to the bone, not expecting to sleep, and an sich, this is a rather sentimental post. But as it is a big-up for the Mamanski, let it stand, and yes, I have slept on it. She will murder me later.)My lover is a genius. Well, of course, we'd never have managed the two plus years if she wasn't. But she is. I hope she will publish her twenty-year old dissertation soon. She was asked by the Wellcome Trust on the strength of it to do a fully paid PhD. She turned it down - she had Barbados in her sights. Fair enough. But I've read it, and it is bloody good. Humbles me. Put it that way. (He said, oh so humbly.)
All I can say is that at least when she was in her early twenties, she was horrifically clever. I thought I was a wise one. Humbled to pieces in comparison. Not the cause of love by any means, but part of the foundations.
I hope and mistrust I'm a match for her now. It is very good to be with someone who fits the cranky segments of one's intellect. But Mrs Maman, the Nameless Waif... clever to the point of insanity... poor as a church mouse... creative as a nuclear explosion in a paint shop. And as devastating. She is among the most amazing people I've met in my 41 (almost) years. (Yes, you too, Kate. That will never vanish. Enough said, and can always be taken for granted.) Forgive me, but I need to sing her praises for once.
She paints like an angel. We are going to try to make it work. I'm going to do the grotty, and she is going to do nothing but paint.. Website coming soon. Watch this space, etc. But if she sells anything, it will be measured in K's, not Monkeys, and crystal skulls can be inserted in a certain orifice not a million miles away from Chalford. I know enough about art to state that.
Have a preview, and goodnight:
The Triumph of Pan, Biro on Cartridge Paper, Approx 150 cm x 57 cm. 2002. Not for Sale.