As most people over the age of forty know well, sex is incompatible with marriage and the fault, according to my good friend Currado Malaspina, lies typically with the wives.
"Inside every tender beauty is a dormant Lady Macbeth," claims the notoriously misogynistic painter. "Within the first few years of matrimony the blood begins to thicken until all that's left are a few drunken memories, a scattering of hopeful toys and half-a-dozen badly illustrated books showings poorly foreshortened positions demanding the nimble agility of a yogi."
And this he told me well before the era of the personal computer.
Here in the States, Johnny Carson was considered one of the most effective means of birth control. In the old days most couples accustomed themselves to a fusty bedroom ménage that invited all manner of late-night TV hosts to drone the unamorous toward their wilted somnolence. Now of course, midnight is when our bone dry fingers scroll the surfaces of our blathering tablets as we examine the equally sexless status of our middle-aged peers.
Currado, who owns neither cat nor cell-phone, is having nothing of it.
He still believes in romance and its resurrective capacity to combust through variation.
His omnivorous appetites are legend and if his biographer Jean-Claude Démoutriade is to be believed his drawings are a living document to his ideals. "There has never been a more autobiographical European painter in history," claims Démoutriade, "including both Faun Roberts and Picasso."
"Monogamy is for seahorses and dreamers," insists my dear friend Malaspina, "and life and love are things to savor and grab for they are as fleeting as the indifferent winds."
A lofty sentiment for someone who has obviously never played Ninja Chicken.
And this he told me well before the era of the personal computer.
Here in the States, Johnny Carson was considered one of the most effective means of birth control. In the old days most couples accustomed themselves to a fusty bedroom ménage that invited all manner of late-night TV hosts to drone the unamorous toward their wilted somnolence. Now of course, midnight is when our bone dry fingers scroll the surfaces of our blathering tablets as we examine the equally sexless status of our middle-aged peers.
Currado, who owns neither cat nor cell-phone, is having nothing of it.
His omnivorous appetites are legend and if his biographer Jean-Claude Démoutriade is to be believed his drawings are a living document to his ideals. "There has never been a more autobiographical European painter in history," claims Démoutriade, "including both Faun Roberts and Picasso."
"Monogamy is for seahorses and dreamers," insists my dear friend Malaspina, "and life and love are things to savor and grab for they are as fleeting as the indifferent winds."
A lofty sentiment for someone who has obviously never played Ninja Chicken.
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