Out on the fringes, the small band and the clear faces of its members, and the low light describe a softness of composure in which each note in harmony adds orange, and all the moments of dissonance, red against the deepening black of the emptiness beyond. The instruments and voices blend, as one can imagine, in an unsurprising dream-like unity which transcends their language and moves viscerally in the attendant group, as if the melodies were physically present in their bodies (though technically this is always the case, even in unpleasant music). Briefly opened eyes and the resultant fiery flicker, momentary interruptions in the stillness. The throaty crack of a log in a formation only important for warmth. The voids within memories from other camps and their symmetrical performances accept new layers of experience, filling gaps subtly and moving toward nostalgia in time. New accretions compress older ones night after night into an increasingly self-similar and consistent whole. They share heat. They melt together.
A code: Inertia. Infection. Incongruity. Superimposed memories and visions. A landscape of machines and a city of weeds. This fertile island breeds something strange, but magical. The light, yes. The grit, yes. But also the pulsing violence of a tectonic and microscopic history. Exposed strata of energy and action. The accretion of ways of thinking and their consequences. We gather intuitions in a continual harvest and supplant what isn’t useful with what is terrible or new or unusual, but the wave rushes on. Not in time, but acceleration. Not stillness or silence, just calm. Not antipodal, but ternary. Not Holocene, Quaternary. Jump up a level. Subsume. Mutate. Expand.
Pictured below: four pairs of twins from Københavns Botanisk Have. I’ll leave their naming to you. But isn’t this inverted sunrise delicious? What warmth, oh my brothers! With the onset of evening and a suddenly violent electric heartbeat, these steel and glass vessels breathe deep orange and yellow. A scientific ordering of thousands of species, a spatial crop circle, a permanent scaffold for transient lives in captivity. Antipodal, impossible families thrive together like glowing clockwork in handmade constellations.
Do greenhouse succulents dream of bohemian windowsills?