III)
When Matisse was an old, old man, a bit before his death, he went on a walk. As he tottered down the street the waiters in each cafÈ, one after the other, came out to stand in homage. When Verdi was an old man, as he went on a drive in the country the peasants came up by the side of the road and sang the Exileís Chorus from Nabucco. There is a god, wrote Arthur Rimbaud, who falls asleep amongst perfumed hosannas, and wakes up for the elderly and frail. If there ís such a god, he has his heaven, which is art, and his hell: the New York art scene.
Paul Werner
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