The clan has, it seems, an intermittent membership of virtually one hundred percent of the adults of our species. 

 

Scars – the psycho-emotional  kind – with only one cause: love.  The lack of love or its excess or one of its many malformations.  

 

Some shelter their scars, constantly fingering them. They do not feel fully alive without this. 

 

 

 

The Fist
Derek Walcott, 1930-2017, Saint Lucian 

 from Collected Poems: 1948-1984.

 

 

The fist clenched round my heart
loosens a little, and I gasp
brightness; but it tightens
again. When have I ever not loved
the pain of love? But this has moved

 

 

 

Melancholia, 1953, opaque watercolour on paper.

  Ben Shahn, 1898-1969,American born Lithuania.  Philadelphia Museum of Art

 

 

past love to mania. This has the strong
clench of the madman, this is
gripping the ledge of unreason, before
plunging howling into the abyss.

Hold hard then, heart. This way at

 least you live.

 

 

 

Saddle, 2000, full raw hide. 

Jennifer Antoni, American born 1964. 

A cast made from rawhide of the artist’s body.  On display at the Metropolitan Museum, NY in 2017

 

 

 

Chlorosis (love sick), 1994, ink, gouache and acrylic on 24 sheets of paper. 

Marlene Dumas, South African born 1953.  MOMA, NY

 

 

 

 

The Sitter, 1992, wax, cheesecloth, wood and dye. 

Kiki Smith, American born 1954.  On display at the Metropolitan Museum, NY in 2017

 

 

 

The poet, however, forswore his scar addiction and learned to live  without them

to write the magnificent poem he called ‘Love After Love’.