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Philosophy buggered its forebears, and Hawkins's art history is a defiled corpse. A past that rots lovely, flesh as sustenance for fish or eyes. The way Hawkins looks at an eternally young Matt Dillon is the way serial killers shampoo their dead victim's hair. Alive to the bearer in its mausoleum, art. Preservation and worm mulch, and maybe no difference between the two for your bride. I wish Hawkins would release books of the collages, the forensic files of his/our art corpse love. Hawkins, let us write the essay.
