At age 16 I attended a school in Boulder, Colorado for high-school dropouts. One of my fellow students was the son of Vivian Mercier, a scholar of Samuel Beckett's work, esp the play Waiting For Godot.
My first read was that year and while on LSD. I was struck by Estragon's reply to Vladimir when asked how was the carrot. Estragon's reply was, "It's a carrot." While many critics cite this exchange as Beckett's allusion to homosexuality, I interpreted it as a Zen-like observation that a carrot is NOT a pseudo penis, but simply a carrot. (I recall a similar analogy when someone commented about a cigar. The smoker replied by saying it wasn't a standin for a "dick," at all, but, in fact, a fine cigar.)
I adopted the phrase and later, when I became an art dealer, it morphed into the carrot on a stick - when dangled in front of their face - used to motivate mules. Discarding the stick, I saw the carrot as an ineffable ideal that inspired me to leap from my bed each morning, eager to extol and expound on the beauties of the art I had for sale. The concept sustains me to this day.
The mule no longer plays a role and I've returned to the carrot itself, in the ether of a starry void. Michelle Cook's depiction completes Phoebe's exterior embellishments.
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