Walls, ladies and gentlemen, I need more walls. Ever since I saw the Cy Twombly exhibition at Centre Pompidou, I have been brutally aware of my wall-missing existence. Large walls, I mean. Spacious. Huge rooms and high ceilings. Very high ceilings. You see, I‘ve never had a problem with not having enough space for a Picasso, the classical period in particular, the one Olga was around, I love that portrait of Olga in that armchair, so beautiful, that serene expression of hers, and she’s so much more beautiful than in real life, he must have been so very deeply in love with her, anyway, getting Olga is so minor a challenge, it’s just about money, the non-existent millions, but I could hang her anywhere, easily, she’d be great in my bedroom, what a soothing idea, makes me want to retire, have a last look at her, and happily fall into the arms of Morpheus, but these large Twombly canvases, these splendid works of art, every single detail is a work of art on its own, they’re driving me insane, where am I to hang them? Where? I am quite serious, this is not a laughing matter, this March in Paris, I have lost my peace of mind forever.