At that particular hour, at that particular age, you were gazing over the firmament of the sea, that threshold of a paradise of shivering and rags, Eve in her aquarium. You turn again towards your sisters with your legs spread apart. Silence. Memory - no longer a gentle poppy. Noxious, humid glare in dingy white-washed rooms. Go down to the harbor, walk forever scornful of time and space. Finish the purple morning among driftwood, polished glass, refuse of the market. Continue walking, and not a word of despair. A dubious rainbow follows the whimsy of the tides, pregnant, heavy. Monsoon clouds.
You remembered the drowned men Alice liked to imagine in this tossing grave. You saw yourself as Ophelia gliding on the oil that stains the sea. And with what would you replace those long purple flowers the young girl wreathed around her brow before going to the brook, those long purple flowers that virgins call dead men’s fingers and which silent shepherds too describe? You saw yourself, your hair sticky from the violet shellfish that common wives sell with a little wink of the eye to travelers who wonder for what sensuous stupefaction these obscene fruits of the sea were torn from the rocks.
Woman crowned in natural straw, the blue of tenderness must be renounced, the red of desire, the blue of joy, and even the mauve of fatigue. On the shores, casks slowly lose their perfume, bleeding into the insensitive earth, empty hour, after the cries, warm blood, the scars of teeth, there is a greater silence. A jetty draws out to sea this carnal soil, this fractured body of a continent that sunstroke has beatified.
25 August, 2019
a spatial lookbook
at Locust Plains Exports
w/ 1000Morceaux, Juano Jeda, Polyhedron, and Optimal Density
Curated and directed by Torre
Photo and install: Leif P
Text: evA l'avasseur