BeehivesThe three images succeeded each other predictably. Fullfigure, before a beach strewn with fossilized cetaceans, the first. The fingers on the strings, the second. The classical profile bent over the guitar, the third.
The song told of a tropical bird which feeds on the entrails of fish.
He soon lost all interest. The beautiful head bore no relation to the contents of the song. A fatal false note. Apollo, with Olympian tranquility, producing cannibalistic sounds!
And then, four years ago, when they had invited him to television for that one sole interview, he had happened to be preceded by a song recital. An artist less gifted than this evening’s. But he had had the good sense to sing pieces which suited his ill-formed figure. Songs about unloved people. The result had been evoca
