Toyin OdutolaLTS XI(2014)
Charcoal, pastel and marker on paper. Approx. 62 x 41.5 inches.
And that completes the series. It hasn’t hit me yet, mostly due to the fact that it’s three in the morning. I suspect it will hit once everything is framed and up for the show. You can view the completed series here, and/or wait until May 1st to view them all in person. Many thanks to everyone for hanging in there with me. This series has been a labor of love and I am so grateful to my brothers for being the inspiration for this project. There aren’t sincerely sufficient words to describe how much I adore them; I could only express it all through these drawings and hope that they understand.  

Two heads on Gold - Jean-Michel Basquiat


The end of the affair is always death.
She’s my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Finger to finger, now she’s mine.
She’s not too far. She’s my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night alone, I marry the bed.

I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute’s speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

She took you the way a woman takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today’s paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

— Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator
"Absence, the highest form of presence."
— James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man