It is easier to believe nobody built the chambers of the bone matrix; that it incremented like coral. This degradable substrate with a small body encysted like an unsung astronaut. Can we say there was no stopping it? The condition did not apply. The gain dialled down. The machine couldn’t have received the message. She must ascend the circular path again, sleep another revolution. She follows an elongated figure with a paper flower who appears a fellow component of this circuit.
So, perhaps this not a dwelling or place of any kind. I should feel paralysis. I shouldn’t be screaming. This space is ample: low artificial light is conducive to filtering noise that might afflict us within and without. Some utopias were in explicit contrast to the Salon Carré, where paintings were stacked heedless of genre. Dogs were counted among the sensitive in this new theatre of Enlightenment.
The floor, ceiling and walls are white, while the exhibition is stark, vast, spacious. Everything hollowed in its place. Yet there’s a buzzing – ‘a dull roar like falls … in the skull’
Conventions are there to be disregarded; much as the inanimate props and backgrounds of the theatre. ‘That concerns the animate’. And it is possible that there is nothing to this. No animation as such. The steeds on which the Toreador or Ceaser enter are more things. Because only the speaker, the human, has any place on the stage – even if, like Hamlet or Beckett’s motoric mouth, it vests a power of impersonal negation. Not I.
The white space effaces the process, the system, and not simply the one who sees. The work was here for itself. It lived by itself more than the horse. We were only implied, drawn around its borders. Each look made us new in those forgotten days. Each visit was discrete, a step taken along a path we couldn’t know yet … Another fallen key.