Untitled (Portrait of Ross in LA) FELIX GONZALES-TORRES, 1991 SAM BOVARD
i. Let me remember that all I am is imagined. 175 pounds of cellophane-wrapped candies sit in a corner like the man they are meant to replace. Take a bite out of the lover— become the decimation that stole his youth, ravaged his body, taking and taking little pieces, shining like the sun, until there’s nothing left. ii. To love someone enough to make their dying last forever… The museum can choose to replenish the pile or leave the corner empty, save for the ghost. Is it better to die once or forever be dying? What do we leave after we go but little pieces of cellophane, crinkling in your jacket pocket, forgotten and hung back up in the closet? iii. You have to let the light in, grass stains damp on your chest; listen to Twigs sing Cellophane and open the body unwraptured; take me into your mouth and pretend that I’m sweet, bright. Need me. Eat me. And let me imagine that I’ll be remembered.
64 • spring 2021
