Gloves, and Other Tales

A peanut butter slathered banana. Mmmm.

Klinger's Glove series popped into my head today (I think it was stumbling upon Otto Dix in The Guardian that did it). I've always been bewitched by it. I suppose it's the logical progression of a childhood obsession with Outside Over There: from one mesmerically dark set of imagery to the next.

There's something so romantic about gloves, so vital: lost gloves, found gloves. For so flimsy a garment, it certainly supports a great deal of intrigue -- for me at least. I suppose it's all to do with touch: brushing fingers when you shouldn't, electrifying first caresses, longing to hold a hand that isn't yours to reach out for. A glove -- moulded to your hand -- takes on the taint of all this intrigue.

(On second thoughts though, your glove might just be some entirely unromantic half-mothed stopgap you picked up in Boots on an unseasonably cold day... and I could be talking utter nonsense.)