Paul Sharits (1943-1993)

Journal: “Declarative Mode” Mid-August 1976 HYDRA    

At Lillian Mak’s (At Brice and Helen Masden’s summer home) (and Lillian Mak’s)

Out the large windows and the door of my white chamber, its light grey doors, brilliant turquoise-blue floor, bright red beams and matching legs of furniture, across the blinding white stucco ledge of my large sun porch, with its linear-twisted limbed cacti bed, is the ultra-blue afternoon sea—what I have come so far to be near to create what I intended to be my masterwork. The place in which I compose my homage to Jefferson’s spirit of total human liberty must be special, very quiet and remote: only Hydra would do. But the first days here were madness: hotels filled, alienated from Athena V., with whom I could have stayed, Jack Griffis as crazy as ever (bless his child-like spirit), Helen H. away, we wandered the port area, drinking too much etc. felt insulted that my embassy wouldn’t allow me easy access to a room at the Art Institute here: I HATE INFLEXIBLE RULES!               

At climax of a mad evening in the nearby café (Jack yelling and smashing glasses in an amusing frenzy, much to the utter dismay of all the others sharing our table), an old Russian woman, apparently a countess at one time (a long time ago), offered me a room in a villa she looks after. A very eccentric and passionate woman, obviously very sensitive and knowledgeable, despite her apparent madness, has given me exactly what I must need for my task. No hotel would have done. Somehow I intuitively knew something like this would occur. On the low round table before me, my color pens are neatly arranged on either side of a plate of small and varied shaped-colored agate stones I gathered from the path around Monet’s Giverny water lily garden. Water, water, water, water, ponds, seas, rivers…

Everything is falling into place. But my incessant sinus problems make me physically weak; infected, taking not only constant dosages of antihistamines (since March) but now also antibiotics as well. Even in the hot sun I’m often cold and shaky, fatigued but unable to sleep properly or nap. I crave companionship but seem impelled towards being alone.

The only sounds here, away from the port, its tourist and jet set affairs, are the constant drone of crickets, occasional donkey and cock calls, distant voiced and fugues of small boat motor putters. Lillian seems to have disappeared, although she leaves the room’s lite on for me to return to at night. Alone, not lonely.