Rochelle Motha Art Exhibition — happened to be there, July 13th.
Rochelle Motha art
Hung on the walls
With the artist sitting by a table in the gallery
Surrounded by five press women and Steve:
Steve is a journalist with a camera
In a pressed blue shirt. Motha speaks of London
And I walk around these people, dramatically;
And I pretend to watch the drawings
The artist’s inner tension.
After throwing these burdens
Around and about the place for a while
Steve walks out the gallery — photos taken.
I join Kurufukker at the coffee joint.
Motha comes like a jelly and tables herself
To our left-centre.
She is waiting for a friend.
Sits alone at the table.
A foreign chick jabs at her laptop, the
Immediate table to the left. Time flows slow.
I have a wound to show.
I say, “Motha” I say
“Not that I understand your art. But some were
Kinda captivating – Visually powerful. Arresting”.
She listens to me, nods, adds, hardly subtracts.
In parenthesis I speak: eavesdropping helps.
Kurufukker is a person who pretends to be a friend.
His name sounds like a F-word, but that’s cos he’s
Unlike both you and me.
He has hidden dark motives in almost all he does.
He’s shrewd and the like: ideally, like one of us.
We are certain that this earth’s axis
Is pierced across our shoulders.
That when we cough when it’s chilly
The Richter scale trembles where it shows.
We pass judgment, watching toes.