So start my last day thinking about food, nothing about anything dirty, as always. I have to do something on my first or second days; it is too late after that as I become too sodden by drink, and too familiar with all the girls on offer in the clubs or on the streets, and familiarity has already bred contempt. If I didn’t feel like doing anything with them on day 1 or 2, I’m very unlikely to on days 3 or 4, let alone 5 or 6. Anyway, a long relaxing 6 days out of London. Some minor titillating pleasures, some minor erotic memories to take home. I’ve not done anything cultural and doubt I will until they reconstitute the old Museum of Modern Art (Modern in this case roughly meaning 1789 to 1939) as they have just lately announced they are to do. Should never have been broken up. Will the wonderful erotic Paul Delvauxs finally be brought out of storage, the Dali Temptation, the Bacon Pope with Owl, the Genie du Mal, the Alfred Stevens Salome; will La Figure Tombale be removed from her corridor and put back in a room full of treasures as she used to be. The loss of the old Brussels Museum of Modern Art is a wound in my soul that still bleeds. No doubt the Magritte Museum that took its place is a massive cash cow they are still milking, but it still should not have been allowed to happen. Open your Magritte Museum somewhere else and leave us our Museum of Modern Art. A disgrace. A disaster.
No desire to go to any museum. If the old magnificent Museum of Modern Art was reconstituted I would, but no desire to return to the Magritte or Fin-de-Siecle. How I loved the old Museum of Modern Art; in one place Alfred Stevens’ Salome, Le Genie du Mal, La Figure Tombale, Death of Marat, Tresors de Satan, Magritte’s La Goulue and Lola de Valence, the room FULL of Paul Delvauxs. It was a special place; destroyed, broken up, most of the pieces I mention now locked away in storage with no place to show them. Fuck the Magritte Museum—a little Magritte goes a long way with me. A museum full of them is way too much. Milking the Magritte cow for all its worth they have killed the goose that lay the golden egg, to mix my metaphors. Ah fantastic (talking of milking cows), I just saw Beatrice and two friends crossing the road under my hotel window and walking towards her place! I see a lot of the street girls passing through this little alleyway and past the Plaza to their spot; maybe they all live together just to the east of the Rue Neuve?
Just 2 beers in the Dome then to Fifth Avenue. 2 or 3 very nice big girls in the Rue des Commerçants, and 4 or 5 very acceptable big girls in Fifth. I know I say 5th is bad these days, but I find it hard to ever leave the place. I always stay for just one more, one more. I was, however, very tired after so long without sleep, and after 5th I just came back to hotel to sleep and that was my first day in Brussels. Ina didn’t arrive till after 7pm I think and instantly was the sexiest girl there. 1055am and I am in the hotel lounge for my first beer of the day. Already I look forward to getting back to 5th later. First I will see if Ciné Paris’s films are as abysmal as the last 3 or 4 visits, then perhaps get the metro down to Le Coin. Every time I came to Brussels I used to to to the Museum of Modern Art, I never tired of it. Now that has gone, its space given over to the Magritte Museum and the Fin de Siecle Museum, neither of which I wish to visit again. Better when the few Magrittes and various fin de siecle treasures were in the mix of the old all-encompassing Museum of Modern Art. A disgrace.
Just thinking about taking my love to the Neue Pinakothek and showing her Die Sünde, and incredibly there are tears in my eyes as I think about showing her THAT picture. How can a PAINTING bring tears to your eyes, have this much of an effect on you? I saw it first at a particular time in my life, and it knocked me for six. I just literally wiped a tear off my cheek.
It seems to me most of the greatest art is about sex, most of the greatest philosophy is about sex, most of the greatest classical music is about sex. People think oh, art, philosophy, classical music, is so old, dry and dusty, and boring; but when you realise most of painting, philosophy and classical music is about sex, then it opens up to you like a flower, and you can see how rich and fascinating it is. And then I sit there in a classical music concert lusting after the violinist on stage with a swelling in my trousers, I walk around art museums almost always with an erection. Eros is all around us.