Thursday, 2 July 2015

And yet: Petra is at her most beautiful when she collapses…


An artist. She floats on the wreckage of a sunken love affair.

A fragile fairy tale. It collapses; her mind in fragments; her life a tearful cataract.

She is an artist creating beauty out of loss.

An artist. She must destroy her world; only then can she invent a paradise.


An artist. 


The artist must be broken. She must burn; be ash and dust. 

An artist. She cannot live in reality. It is a ruin for her.

Only when nothing is left can the artist live again.

An artist. Fly gorgeous bird! Fly. Fly. Like a beautiful plane over the city it bombs to pieces.

She is a horsewoman riding across the plains of the apocalypse.


An artist.


Out of the dust and ashes an exquisite work of artifice. 

Out of the flames a phoenix.

Out of pain a gorgeous woman. 

It is Petra von Kant. Her bitter tears raise a sweet flower.


An artist.


Her face a masterpiece of maquillage. 

On her lithe body a green dress; a shroud of jealousy.

Petra has blonde curls. Just like Karin.

Around her neck a black band; it is a sign of loss; a symbol of death.

On the black band a red rose. Her beautiful bullet hole.


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