Art Exhibition (For Hannah)
Written approx. first week of July 2018 - A meditation on sitting with Hannah on a rock in the middle of the Dreisam
“I’ll take you to an art exhibition” I tell her. “It’s down by the river.”
She looks sceptical, but smiles as she licks her fast-melting ice cream. We bought two kugels each and stand nursing them at the hot intersection by the river. These are more delicious and less lethal than the other type of kugel, I think to myself, as a milky droplet leaves a tasty stain on my hand.
We cross and take the stairs down to the river’s edge, abandoning our shoes and backpacks on the grass. She places her foot into the water first, black painted nails contrasting the tiny emerald remnants of bottles rolling on the river bed, prompting me to caution her. Hand in hand, we step or perhaps stagger, mutually reliant on one another, our heron limbs careful in the current. Behind my shadowy lenses I feel more disconnected than I would like to be in this situation. Disconnection on a busy street can be quite calming, but here my glasses are making it harder for me to balance.
Upstream a bit we find a flat rock jutting free from the water. It’s a smooth, worn grey, with spots of bird feces paint. Gross but quite beautiful. I imagine this rock to be the work of some talented ariel splatter artist, a misanthrope well acquainted with the solitude of flight and the conversation-less ramblings of the river. Songs of praise were doubtless sung by the artist’s irreputable beaked brethren up in the black powerline galleries where admission is free if you can fly (though the spectacle is more electrifying if you can’t). We huddle together, back sides aching, but content, on the rock, dipping our feet into the water now and then. Bicycles populate the paths lining the river, all going one direction so that nature flows in reverse.
We are the only stillness amid it all, the only intelligent onlookers, voicing the only words amid a collage of thoughtless sounds. The mute bridge at our backs expresses its gigantic phantasies via wrought iron shadows projected onto the water. Meanwhile, a woman in the suspended pendulum perch beneath the bridge enjoys her own sun-dazed rapturous introspections. Today’s exhibit truly is a rich one, we agree. Free moving installations provide endless sights for our leisurely optical assimilation.
My retinas soon grow weary from the sharp silver arclight cast by the current, smarting from overstimulation while my heart is still entranced; a shame. We turn now to the frame at our backs. This scene is more minimal, though a colossal white mushroom plumes unexpectedly in the middle. Jokes are exchanged about our little paradise being the target of an atom bomb. But why would anybody who has seen it ever seek to destroy it? The cloud is wonderfully beautiful but nothing sinister. We sit, our spines twisted in captivation, and fail to make sense of it.
She looks sceptical, but smiles as she licks her fast-melting ice cream. We bought two kugels each and stand nursing them at the hot intersection by the river. These are more delicious and less lethal than the other type of kugel, I think to myself, as a milky droplet leaves a tasty stain on my hand.
We cross and take the stairs down to the river’s edge, abandoning our shoes and backpacks on the grass. She places her foot into the water first, black painted nails contrasting the tiny emerald remnants of bottles rolling on the river bed, prompting me to caution her. Hand in hand, we step or perhaps stagger, mutually reliant on one another, our heron limbs careful in the current. Behind my shadowy lenses I feel more disconnected than I would like to be in this situation. Disconnection on a busy street can be quite calming, but here my glasses are making it harder for me to balance.
Upstream a bit we find a flat rock jutting free from the water. It’s a smooth, worn grey, with spots of bird feces paint. Gross but quite beautiful. I imagine this rock to be the work of some talented ariel splatter artist, a misanthrope well acquainted with the solitude of flight and the conversation-less ramblings of the river. Songs of praise were doubtless sung by the artist’s irreputable beaked brethren up in the black powerline galleries where admission is free if you can fly (though the spectacle is more electrifying if you can’t). We huddle together, back sides aching, but content, on the rock, dipping our feet into the water now and then. Bicycles populate the paths lining the river, all going one direction so that nature flows in reverse.
We are the only stillness amid it all, the only intelligent onlookers, voicing the only words amid a collage of thoughtless sounds. The mute bridge at our backs expresses its gigantic phantasies via wrought iron shadows projected onto the water. Meanwhile, a woman in the suspended pendulum perch beneath the bridge enjoys her own sun-dazed rapturous introspections. Today’s exhibit truly is a rich one, we agree. Free moving installations provide endless sights for our leisurely optical assimilation.
My retinas soon grow weary from the sharp silver arclight cast by the current, smarting from overstimulation while my heart is still entranced; a shame. We turn now to the frame at our backs. This scene is more minimal, though a colossal white mushroom plumes unexpectedly in the middle. Jokes are exchanged about our little paradise being the target of an atom bomb. But why would anybody who has seen it ever seek to destroy it? The cloud is wonderfully beautiful but nothing sinister. We sit, our spines twisted in captivation, and fail to make sense of it.
