The two women, wandering the galleries as much for the cool air, as for the installations, were unaware of the agony of the fully formed consciousness before them, a sentient being silently begging for release from an existence where she had ceased, not only to matter, but to be, impaled in an ever-changing gallery, where form mattered more than substance.
Ceasing to matter was a metamorphosis recognisable by a gradual fraying of the edges, from sole to mind, an invisibility that released the body from the harsh world of reality into the unknown world of eternity. The artist as celebrant, drafting a policy white-paper on the state of modern marriage that is cognisant of a narrow spectrum of socially acceptable unions, leaving all variants to limbo forever in purgatory.
The immobile face cries out for recognition, for sustenance, for intellectual nourishment, but receives, in return, a single grain of sand.
|Photo courtesy of Diane at Adventure before Dementia|