Elliott Smith

I still remember where I was when I heard that Elliott Smith had died. I had woken up that morning in a bunk bed in a youth hostel in Lausanne, looking out over Lake Geneva, on a cloudy and dark day. I got the news on a communal computer in the lounge. I was drinking coffee. I spent the afternoon of that day in the Collection de l'Art Brut. Looking at works from Henry Darger and Willem van Genk in a deserted gallery felt somehow appropriate on that rainy and sad day... Lonely, solitary and often tormented figures, who created magic from just that...yet were either unaware of what they were doing, what beauty they were creating, or were simply unable to derive any sense of joy, or peace from it themselves - Letter Arms