Paris, January 1982

Letter to S.

There I sit with your pulse warmers, ear plugs in my ears and a Baci in my mouth. There is a reason for all this: in front of the marvelous view of the Seine, along its banks, there is a road with rush traffic day and night. So I not only stuff my ears at night, but all day when I'm here (what a nice feeling!). I put the Baci in my mouth instead of words, since this building is probably large and heavily populated, but - as it seems - everyone lives in seclusion. You see, there is no joy in it. I am even thinking about premature departure, so as not to be completely overwhelmed by the emptiness of this large studio. There is enough space, but you are not allowed to put in more, than there is. And that is just not enough. It’s like in a prison: table, chairs, bed - and even an easel. The weather contributes to this misery: lashing rain, bleak mood. And, in the corner of my eye, always this metal avalanche, interrupted at regular intervals by the blue light of the police or ambulance cars.

(From my diary)