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La Trottola Di Sirio |
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Edward Allington, The Spinning Top of Sirius To understand Sirius. was I born under the wrong star? In the traces of ancient dance steps, should I have understood the essence of gestures large enough to fill the night and sensed their essential relation to the language of the shadows? I don't know why I have forgotten. I don't now why I cannot forget; my plaint was spontaneous. How is a perception of the infinite to re-enter our consciousness? As long as the gods don't fall... All the gods have fallen! Have all the gods fallen?... The swift stride of dogs in pursuit of the gazelle beats out the time on my water clock. How are we to hear the howling of the Dog in the lunar night? Press one ear to the ground? Drink the dew? Watch the sun rise, to recover our sight? The top spins round and round, hiding the image; five pairs of shoes and a black glove mark the points on the map. His divine parentage, his extraordinary beauty and prodigious strength were to no avail - the scorpion stung him in the heel and in the lunar night Orion still has the Scorpion at his heels. The time has come, the hottest season of the year is upon us - the smell of dew, the taste of honey and a desire to yield to seduction... The mountain which the friendly gods decked with silver to make their court is covered with dust and set, far off, in marbled waters, but there is a figure at the prow, to point the way. Have all the gods fallen? Or is it still easy for those with eyes to recognise the court, with its roof upheld by spear shafts and shields?... It is all in my heart - I recall everything, yet have nothing to recount. Collecting scattered objects, in scattered places... I want to summon the witches and alchemists to sell them my soul, turn base metal to gold, forget everything, as a means of knowing afresh. No use, trying to analyse my actions - there is nothing but words, outside my feelings, and I can only give you a small piece of my heart and hope for a small piece of your heart, in return. From the cornucopia. I have drawn nourishment, to see me through successive nights; from rubbish cut my suit, built a zoo, made cutlery and shaped a mask, as idea has turned into image, into sacred or secular image. The image roughed out is incomplete, yet charged with a strange meaning and vital impulse. From the outset. Anish Kapoor's works are so charged with meaning that there can be no reliable guide to interpretation. Taking root only in the areas of primordial experience, they feed on the wonder and dread that they are able to engender and their capacity to generate a silence. Asserting their right to be invisible to the short-sighted, they serve now as protective and healing images, now as offensive, disease-carrying agents. Once the dwelling has collapsed, what else remains, but to mark off the silent places with the sand of the desert? How can we banish all prejudice and preconception and replace them with the irrefutable evidence of significant form? Anish Kapoor has closed the gap between healing and disease, by offering the latter as an essential experience and a necessary condition for the passage to health, as a poison which provides the remedy and an internal event which gains a collective dimension. The enigmatic quality of the Image penetrates to the sensitive area of momentary revelations and mysteries; what we intuit escapes the grasp of our conscious mind, the forgotten image takes form but the perceived image is quickly forgotten - eyes turned inwards, voyage of menstrual breath in the male vortices, lunar eclipse, a trace in the sand. We can experience life, only by existing: the gift of the cosmic egg procured fecundity, desire for extreme pleasure and extreme pain; we can experience death, only by dying, with our toys clasped to our heart, the forms of our body covered with the ritual finality of red and yellow pigment; night falls, even on our Angst, swathing in darkness our longing for silence. The column of the
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