My dream once for the north wing of the building –
a vast mural of Fred and Wilma, done
‘after Poussin’ – is on hold. Unregretted.
What do you say to Jackson Pollock in a lift?
Obviously, the numbers climb higher and higher,
and expensive graffiti gets pulled out of the wall
at midnight, and carried away on a truck. You say
Que sera, sera and duck. Straightening up, slowly,
I explain my other dream to him: Géricault’s portrait
of the back of Delacroix’s head in old age.
Jackson laughs – ‘Like mine of Bill de Kooning
aged ninety!’ he says. Downstairs we throw the spray cans on the fire – watch them explode.