Then, I went to see Spring and Arnaud today, a poetic gem of a documentary about the shared love and acclaimed work of Canadian artists Spring Hurlbut and Arnaud Maggs.
Cinematically gorgeous & masterfully edited.
In 1986, Spring came to Arnaud's 60th birthday, uninvited. He checked her out and found her kind of cute. She was 25 years younger. They went on a date. He thought things were going swell, until the second date when she told him it was all off. Hiding his dismay, he interrupted with a request.
“OK,” he said, “but let’s have a goodbye kiss.”
“I put everything I had ever learned into that kiss,” he says.
I ask myself why any artist would inflict our peculiar brands of madness on anyone else.
Arnaud died in November 2012 during the filming. I wept.
I told the filmmakers that I wanted to believe in reincarnation so that they could reunite in another life.
Now, I'm right back where I started -- as Spring observes in the film: “swinging between the two extremes of how life comes into the world and how we exit the world.”
Why must life be so ironic?
But enough about my angst.
Watch this film if you ever get a chance!
I'll close with one of Arnaud's photographs, a self-portrait of himself as Pierrot
(So worth seeing these on a large screen):