Layers, kerbstones, foundations
Markers in time
Footsteps, in settling sands
Prayers, tablets of stone, meditations
Offerings for later
Doorstops, in crossing lands
Soothsayers, touchstones
Messages from the past
Padlocks, for enjoining hands
Enter the distance
Triangles, straight lines, points of view
Drawn from multifarious perspectives
Rhomboids, intersections, vanishing places
Layered, with irregular precision
The east is your beginning, the west your end; sunrise to sunset
Your distance is to the north, your depth to the south; sun up to sundown
The globe of distortion becomes your life; shadow to light de facto
With hands a bowl is formed
This cup of water slowly drains
Wipe your face with the wetness
Scan your eyes and look out for echoes
Over by the fish scales, the Saragossa
Measure then the lens with precision
Set up the theodolite, the barometer
Secure the slide rule and the abacus
Come with me to the horizon
Over the skyline to the river
Float on; as to the Khumba Mela
Chance your arm at the casino
With a bagel or a dollar
Take a pretzel to the foreground
Understand the nature of charm
And the coincidence of parallel lines
Why do we need to explain, why do we need to intellectualise? Why do we need to say more about the art, than does the art itself? Does then the explanation become the significant part? Does the explanation, well presented, become the main event?
On the big screen
In the side stream viewing booth
The power of the moving image
The force of multi-media
A darkened space, a mood
A voice with timbre & only
A chosen number to view
No book
No guide
No historical perspective
Outwith of the one performed
For the indiscriminately invited patrons
Understand it my way seems to be the message
Or do not begin to imagine that you understand it; anyhow at all
Depth, without depth
Horizons
Without lines or folds
Step up
Jermyn Street tailor
Tell me please
Is it an illusion?
Or is the client
Deceased
But
Was he the hunter?
That set you free
