Only Connect

Blue Connections

I slipped away from my place near the sparkling cockerels and the bottles of champagne, off from Fortnum’s on a day of culture. I was gone towards Bond Street in a twinkling of that bird’s eye. Maybe you spotted me with him, that elderly man hands behind his back, who hid me in his scarf? Then, a quick transfer to the soles of the trainers belonging to that young suited man.

Soon, I’d be in the world of Gerhard Richter and Binky Palermo at Dominique Levy’s.

Five down, three across. That’s me. Cultured. ‘Cos I’m the “Champean” model of conceptual art. And here I am again. Middle right, colour chart.

Think you saw me in Farblatt? Fooled you! No, that was a relative. I’m not amongst the ten near the photo painting either.

Bitte, Ken pathos! I’m leaving now. I wonder if I’ll be missed. An empty square. I’m heading on to Saville Row.

“Fuck!” Said the man in jeans. “Got to return to the shop, pick up the contact lenses.”

To see me better perhaps?

A woman with long hair mentioned that the Russian part had never arrived, but I haven’t been in Russia of late.

I pass a sign for Black Friday. Not my style.

Alexander McQeen paired me with that day of darkness and woven me into a tie. And I peek out at you from the window of Norton’s.

I’m amorphous as the day allows. No fish out of water, me. I insinuate myself through the doors of the Octavia Gallery down the road.

I am in, but not on Bacon’s waves. Absent from the wall of water seen by Courbet. I’d love to be in that Picasso but he spurned me.

Yet I surround Galatea, celebrate her beauty. Contrast her swathe of silk modesty. I lend my support to the putti placed on a cloud that absorbed me.

I worry about “Untitled.” She’s so small to swim alone although she’s not too near the shark’s fin.

I’m not dark or knowing enough for the water at Frith Street. I left my tinsel in the window so I’m too bland for the gold-rusted baths.

I never knew that sharks could swim the streets of London. From Saville Row to Golden Square and onwards.

A sharkskin suit on an easel, his real eye gold-entombed in a gallery wall.

That’s why you’ll never see me here.

Catch me f you can!

I’m taking the 25 to the end of the route. I’ll breathe a while. Picnic in Russell Square. Later, I’ll catch that same bus back to Piccadilly. Finish the day in Christmas window number three.

Astrid Sutton Sharkey

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dorothy cross

Dorothy Cross: Eye of Shark , 2014

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