Monday, June 6, 2011

Stanislaw had a box for everything -part 1 & 2

Here we go, a new ping-pong painting ! I'm mashing art with Matthew Watkins, and the writer Paul Jarvis is following us with a fantastic story... We started with Matthew's masterpiece just below (brushes on iPad):

Un nouvelle collaboration commence ! Un "ping-pong painting" sur iPad avec Matthew Watkins, que l'écrivain Paul Jarvis accompagne à l'écrit... Nous sommes partis du dessin de Matthew juste en dessous:

 Stanislaw had a box for everything

Which inspired Paul the following story:
Pour lequel Paul a écrit:

"The first one had been the hardest. He’d been young then, of course, but the memories of trying to hold that lid on were still every bit as real as the smell of freshly cut cardboard in the operating theatre. Sometimes at night, amid the muffled hubbub from the rowdier prisoners in the upper boxes, it seemed to Stanislaw that he could make out the higher pitch of that first victim’s squeal.
At the moment, however, the office was unnaturally hushed. And that was not all. No sooner had he emerged from the theatre than Stanislaw saw that his desk was not as it should be: the boxing schedules and progress reports were no longer in their neat rectangular pile, but scattered haphazardly here and there, while three of the “souvenir” pigeon holes were darkly empty.
Stanislaw laid down his surgical towel and plunged into deep reflection. Of a sudden, his ears pricked up. The sound was unmistakable. One of the boxes was open".
I replied with that painting:
J'ai répondu avec ce dessin:
He even had a box for him, too. But this one was top-secret.

And Paul answered:
“One of the boxes is open.” The thought raced back and forthunchecked like a crazed moth across the uncluttered whiteness of Stanislaw’s middle-mind. Seconds, perhaps minutes, passed before – as the good psychiatrist had assured him it always would – the darkness of reason began to exert its calming effect on this latest mental intruder.

“Impossible,” he told himself. “The vacuum-locking system CANNOT fail.” Clutching the table, he blink-breathed to a countof thirty, then straightened up, relief exploding magically in his belly. “Unless…”

Panic-stricken now, Stanislaw pulled the table aside, fell to his knees and wrenched open the door to his Box Chamber. The bad psychiatrist had once punched him so hard in the solar plexus that he had felt like he was drowning in air. This was worse: the hands on the pressure gauge were swinging dangerously towards the vertical, the blue safety lights at the back of the Chamber were out, and there was no sign of life. He felt the hair he no longer had prickle terrified on his head, but there was nothing else for it. Stanislaw slid forward into the dark stillness.  

Stay tuned, the mash is only beginning !

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