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Lot Essay
The Sailor is your love, lost at sea. At first, he is simply the mirror image of your secret longing. He is the lingering pornography of your adolescence, a confection of schmaltz and purity. But one day _ in Marseille, of course _ he becomes real. You have stopped before the window of a tattoo shop. Something about those painful swallows, those burning, speared hearts, those dragons the color of veins, reawakens your embarrassing dream of The Sailor. You blush and, looking up to check your face in the reflection, are startled to see him beside you. In his face really there, or is it just part of the window display ? You turn quickly and speak the necessary words. The precious days of shore leave pass and are gone, and soon you watch the frigate taking The Sailor away from you, over the horizon to the zone of danger.
Months pass. You try to remember his body but see only the brilliant white of a standard-issue uniform. You try to remember his face but see only a cipher of synthetic perfection. He is already dead when you receive the telegram. "The Sailor died fighting bravely for his comrades. His last words were of you". Your eyes flood with tears. You run to the docks and, sobbing uncontrollably, gaze into the tattoo shop window. The Sailor is still there, a hand-colored photograph faded by the sun (Momus, Taschen Editions, 1993).
Months pass. You try to remember his body but see only the brilliant white of a standard-issue uniform. You try to remember his face but see only a cipher of synthetic perfection. He is already dead when you receive the telegram. "The Sailor died fighting bravely for his comrades. His last words were of you". Your eyes flood with tears. You run to the docks and, sobbing uncontrollably, gaze into the tattoo shop window. The Sailor is still there, a hand-colored photograph faded by the sun (Momus, Taschen Editions, 1993).