Classic Objects

There was a painter in my first studio space that I remember She used to attach her own hair onto her paintings They were stacked in the hallway Depicting faces, desperate but hopeful A row of death masks Fusing life and death together I mean, life and art, or is it death Or maybe it's just me? At times, I have been obsessed with Connecting to materials and textures And I dreamt of having a face made of marble A face made of marble, a face made of marble How do you kiss, how do you kiss A piece of marble or a piece of gold? I've always tried, I've always tried to prove that I'm the living Connecting dead parts, dead parts, dead parts Once I tried acting I was the virgin in the cast, like I wasn't quite human Performing alabaster, an empty canvas The shape around the others In a silent pageant away from emotion Now I rearrange objects that my friend made for my show I'm not sure if these are art or just stuff she made for me But I rearrange them on the countertop like I'm examining a stage plot Working on my performance Examining the borders, the borders Living my text Two dead parts (two dead parts) Two still-lives (two still-lives)