Bill Murray on Gilda Radner:
“Gilda got married and went away. None of us saw her anymore. There was one good thing: Laraine had a party one night, a great party at her house. And I ended up being the disk jockey. She just had forty-fives, and not that many, so you really had to work the music end of it. There was a collection of like the funniest people in the world at this party. Somehow Sam Kinison sticks in my brain. The whole Monty Python group was there, most of us from the show, a lot of other funny people, and Gilda. Gilda showed up and she’d already had cancer and gone into remission and then had it again, I guess. Anyway she was slim. We hadn’t seen her in a long time. And she started doing, “I’ve got to go,” and she was just going to leave, and I was like, “Going to leave?” It felt like she was going to really leave forever.
So we started carrying her around, in a way that we could only do with her. We carried her up and down the stairs, around the house, repeatedly, for a long time, until I was exhausted. Then Danny did it for a while. Then I did it again. We just kept carrying her; we did it in teams. We kept carrying her around, but like upside down, every which way—over your shoulder and under your arm, carrying her like luggage. And that went on for more than an hour—maybe an hour and a half—just carrying her around and saying, “She’s leaving! This could be it! Now come on, this could be the last time we see her. Gilda’s leaving, and remember that she was very sick—hello?”
We worked all aspects of it, but it started with just, “She’s leaving, I don’t know if you’ve said good-bye to her.” And we said good-bye to the same people ten, twenty times, you know.
And because these people were really funny, every person we’d drag her up to would just do like five minutes on her, with Gilda upside down in this sort of tortured position, which she absolutely loved. She was laughing so hard we could have lost her right then and there.
It was just one of the best parties I’ve ever been to in my life. I’ll always remember it. It was the last time I saw her.”
#neonspacevroom (Taken with Instagram)
the other way (Taken with Instagram)
#goodmorning (Taken with Instagram)
This week’s Modern Art Notes Podcast spotlights artist Lucian Freud, whose paintings are the subject of a major exhibition that originated at the National Portrait Gallery in London and which is now at the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth. Titled “Lucian Freud: Portraits,” the exhibition is on view at MAMFW through October 28.
My guests are Pulitzer Prize-winning Boston Globe art critic Sebastian Smee, a friend of Freud’s who has written several books on his work, and Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth chief curator Michael Auping, who helped organize the exhibition and who conducted the last interviews with Freud before his death last year. Smee and I also discuss art and museums in Boston and New England, and his new e-book, titled “Frame by Frame.”
Among the works Auping and I discuss is this tremendous picture of longtime Freud model Leigh Bowery, titled Nude with Leg Up (1992). It’s in the collection of the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden in Washington and might be the best Freud in a U.S. museum collection.
Image: Lucian Freud, Nude with Leg Up (detail), 1992.
Taken with Instagram
It seems so useless to do something.
I’m told we’re going to die.
Every moment spent awake, I know that effort is for nothing.
Effort will disappear. It will slip from the memory of the one that loved you and the one that you loved. It will slip from your family, your neighbors, the shopkeepers on your street. Your cat. You will stop. Your efforts will stop. Your efforts will disappear. Then what? I know this will happen. Then what?
I don’t feel depressed by this news. I still wake up and go to work. Mostly, I am unable to decide what to do in the meantime. What is worth the effort when considering these circumstances? It’s not about choosing something I love over something I don’t love. No. This actually requires a bit of chicanery. A slight of hand. Even what I love will die. What are the things that don’t know about the gatekeeper of my impending doom? What are the things that don’t know about my complete and total absence?
I could make a movie. I could take pictures, tape them together and make a movie. Then I could tell you this story and you would see your own impending doom. It would suck the blood from your bones and muscles and hurdle your flesh in crimson blue drops to points not below, but high, to frozen peaks, black with eternal night sky and chill, high above stalagmites that wander a path that end at the castle walls that sit at the tops of these buzzard peaks.
Guards stand in front of you, stationed as granite statues named Centurions. They wear breastplates and large boulder helmets that reveal only the steely eyes of their Centurion presence. The tips of their iron swords are poisoned and bitter and poke at your fingers, now stubby and trembling from the cold and your fatigue.
This scene won’t end with a fight. After some time, you’ll realize you can’t rally once more with tiny, bloody fists at the Centurions’ swords every time they push you down into the caves, again and again and again and again. It’s worthless. After some time, you realize effort is for nothing.
the neighborhood (Taken with Instagram)