The Collector

I accept too much. To begin with I thought I must force myself to be matter-of-fact, not let his abnormality take control of the situation. But he might have planned it. He’s getting me to behave exactly as he wants.

This isn’t just a fantastic situation; it’s a fantastic variation of a fantastic situation. I mean, now he’s got me at his mercy, he’s not going to do what anyone would expect. So he makes me falsely grateful. I’m so lonely. He must realize that. He can make me depend on him.

I’m on edge, I’m nowhere near as calm as I seem (when I read what I’ve written).

It’s just that there’s so much time to get through. Endless endless endless time.

What I write isn’t natural. It’s like two people trying to keep up a conversation.

It’s the very opposite of drawing. You draw a line and you know at once whether it’s a good or a bad line. But you write a line and it seems true and then you read it again later.

Yesterday evening he wanted to take a photograph of me. I let him take several. I think, he may be careless, someone may see me lying around. But I think he lives quite alone. He must do. He must have spent all last night developing and printing them (as if he’d go to the chemist’s! I don’t think). Flashlit me’s on glossy paper. I didn’t like the flashlight. It hurt my eyes.

Nothing has happened today, except that we have come to a sort of agreement about exercise. No daylight yet. But I can go in the outer cellar. I felt sulky so I was sulky. I asked him to go away after lunch and I asked him to go away after supper, and he went away both times. He does everything he’s told.

He’s bought me a record-player and records and all the things on the huge shopping-list I gave him. He wants to buy things for me. I could ask for anything. Except my freedom.

He’s given me an expensive Swiss watch. I say I will use it while I am here and give it back when I go. I said I couldn’t stand the orangeady carpet any more and he’s bought me some Indian and Turkish rugs. Three Indian mats and a beautiful deep purple, rose-orange and sepia white-fringed Turkish carpet (he said it was the only one “they” had, so no credit to his taste).

It makes this cell more liveable in. The floor’s very soft and springy. I’ve broken all the ugly ashtrays and pots. Ugly ornaments don’t deserve to exist.

I’m so superior to him. I know this sounds wickedly conceited. But I am. And so it’s Ladymont and Boadicaea and noblesse oblige all over again. I feel I’ve got to show him how decent human beings live and behave.

He is ugliness. But you can’t smash human ugliness.

Three nights ago was so strange. I was so excited at leaving this crypt. I felt so nearly in complete control. It suddenly seemed all rather a grand adventure, something I’d one day soon be telling everyone about. A sort of chess-game with death I’d rather unexpectedly won. A feeling that I had run a terrible risk and now everything was going to be all right. That he was going to let me go, even.

Mad.

I have to give him a name. I’m going to call him Caliban.

Piero. I’ve spent the whole day with Piero, I’ve read all about him, I’ve stared at all the pictures in the book, I’ve lived them. How can I ever become a good painter when I know so little geometry and mathematics? I’m going to make Caliban buy me books. I shall become a geometrician. Shattering doubts about modern art. I thought of Piero standing in front of a Jackson Pollock, no, even a Picasso or a Matisse. His eyes. I can just see his eyes.

The things Piero says in a hand. In a fold in a sleeve. I know all this, we’ve been told it and told it and I’ve said it. But today I really felt it. I felt our whole age was a hoax, a sham. The way people talk and talk about tachism and cubism and this ism and that ism and all the long words they use—great smeary clots of words and phrases. All to hide the fact that either you can paint or you can’t.

I want to paint like Berthe Morisot, I don’t mean with her colours or forms or anything physical, but with her simplicity and light. I don’t want to be clever or great or “significant” or given all that clumsy masculine analysis. I want to paint sunlight on children’s faces, or flowers in a hedge or a street after April rain.

The essences. Not the things themselves.

Swimmings of light on the smallest things.

Or am I being sentimental?

Depressed.

I’m so far from everything. From normality. From light. From what I want to be.

October 18th

G.P.—You paint with your whole being. First you leam that. The rest is luck.

Good solution: I must not be fey.