I hate this... feeling...

losing...

It’s a kind of sinking.
Your hopes siphoned off and leached out.
You are left there ― drained ― like a lost wax sculpture.
Helpless, hopeless, inconsolable (no-one say anything).
No one touch me (Noli Me Tangere).
There’s nothing worse.

When I walked into Richard’s studio I recognised that feeling writ large ― from all sides. The figures in the paintings looked like statues. They reminded me of those painted statues in their painted niches in Padua. Giotto’s Wrath, Envy, Despair and Inconstancy ― all standing together like a reunion of ghosts.
I could see that feeling in these faces, painted.
I could see it in the painted limp bodies; in the fallen figures and in the faces looking skyward for some (impossible) salvation.
I could smell it in the paint.
Losing enameled.

These paintings were all shiny examples of losing at sports.
Each of them looked familiar. I thought I recognised some of the scenes from the press. The titles of the paintings didn’t identify the people or the scenes they recalled. These are images unhinged. They are like uncaptioned photographs ― untitled Vices. One image can stand in for another. They are signs of the type.
They are a set of losers all feeling the same thing.
They give it off.

Lewer’s paintings are a bit like crime scenes.
They reek of an ugly event and of lasting damage.

...not losing

The other (unseen) side of these paintings.
When the final whistle blows, or the siren sounds, you often hear the winners say that what they mostly feel is relief.
I suppose this means then, that they must have been more worried about losing, than they are now excited about winning.
That feeling passes of course, and the celebration can begin.

There’s nothing better - until next time.

I asked Richard if he wanted to come to Sydney to watch the All Blacks play against Australia with me. He said he couldn’t think of anything worse. What if we lost.

- Patrick Pound