This is the 18th and last picture for Anna Bloom. It is number 17 in the series, the penultimate line of the poem. It is about pain. It is about the pain of his unrequited love. But also the pain that is preferable to doing something about it. The pain of being a martyr to his own passion. A kind of grandstanding, I feel.
I definitely need to go back through these and make colour blocks for about 12 of the 18 prints. Red in the first half, pivoting through the single blue and turning green in the second half.
It has been a very interesting process. Going through the poem line-by-line, searching for some cue for my visual interpretation. Schwitters was one of those artists seeking to create a Gesamtkunstwerk - a total work of art - so everything links together for him, visual, auditory, tactile. Maybe he sought to appeal to the "twenty-seven senses" in his art.
I've also got to think now about producing this in book form. Both an "art" book and a "book" book. We shall see how this progresses.
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