Beware of the water that sleeps,
Black as night, it eats up light,
Let us gaze elsewhere in this twilight.
A hazardous glance into this stuff of dreams, thoughts and acts.
Bachelard used to say: “the same memory springs from every fountain”, so what is it?
What are we facing here?
Pulsates, like an artificial heart.
Such infinite absorption is exhausting to the eye,
Might its time be nigh? Pumping so that nothing is dry, it is the safeguard of life.
Four legs anchored to the earth, electrified by a spirit.
Its breath cyclical, like the water’s.
It ranges alone, its rebirth assured, whether it happens upon another or not.
Our gaze comes into play, we are drawn in. To touch it, to bring it back towards us- everything accelerates. This is when all creation melts, form is lost; the renaissance will, perhaps, be different this time.
Set in bountiful grassland, “at a time when Echo was still embodied.”
She still cannot speak with us. “The torments, which ward off sleep, exhaust her decrepit body. She is so frail it has dried out her skin. Lifeblood has evaporated from her limbs. All that is left are her bones and voice; voice intact, bones like boulders now.”
She wilts, but up above Narcissus is sending rain, giving life. When they meet, the story takes a turn.
Little cells are stretched into life, finally awake. Echo begets an Echo-system.
like no other?
Order grapples with disorder to give coherence to this autonomous world.
Slowly-gently- it comes into life. The impression is infinite, but time is elapsing, everything repeats itself.
It looks easy, lovely to traverse, but you would be suicidal to try.
An audience with the depths.
Perhaps the specter of endless youth is to be found in this water that comes, this water that goes?
A work that asks a question- what are we looking at? - we dig deeper.
In order to reveal itself, it dresses up.