Kiki is gold. She eats books and chairs. If she is upset she looks in the mirror and feels immediately better, consoled by the fact she exists. And I can understand that because she’s lovely. I would be comforted too if I saw that pale little face looking back at me with its deep eyes and quaint nose. And I do, every day, and it is comforting, and it’s Christmas. Every morning there are presents. A new smile, a sound, a movement. Perhaps a tooth. Not quite. She is a fresh delicacy, warm, sticky - the back of her neck is unbaked dough, her arms, steamed dimsims. She licks giraffes and sucks necks and sticks her right leg out stiff and pumps it up and down when she’s happy. What is it she feels? What does she see? Think? I ache to know, I look for signs but I can’t be her, even though I made her. Well, half. Well, nothing. She is silent in prams and loud in mornings and delighted by the sight of me, which is endlessly flattering – never have I felt so important, so popular. Me. Me? She murmurs in cars. If you blow in her face she pokes out her tongue and her eyes go wide. It’s hard not to do that a lot. She’s a wind-up toy, a kewpie doll with no clothes on. She is absolute in her rejection of sleeves. She likes the feel of her skin in air, in water, against things – my skin. She isn’t afraid. She is bold. I miss her already. I take pictures and pictures and hope I don’t drop her in the desperation to capture the moment of her, catch every instant of her before it’s gone, though it so quickly is, replaced by yet a new marvel. Never was there such a living reminder of moments passing.
|Man Ray 'Film Strips with Kiki'|