Monday, February 1, 2016
At times, one can perceptibly hear the dripping rain. Each drop falls, is unique and is then gone again in a terrifying ocean of amnesia.
Can art ever hope to offer insight into the iteration of the everyday? I do not think art is a sop to Kerberos that keeps us in this world. The third head knew the secret you know. Kerberos did not so much guard the entrance from intruders, but rather guarded the knowledge that the world with its time was Tartarus.
Today I had the misfortune of seeing art suggest through sound the death of a man. There is no contest in death, whether it is abrupt and horrific: say a bulldozer pushes his house down upon him because he will not leave the place he was born—or whether it is slow: the grains of nows too small and indistinct in the blurry mental cataract of dementia.
But the art appeared to fail because no matter how big the stage, it is never quite as big as life. It is left to me as observer to make the rest of the scene: that which lies beyond the proscenium—both in the heart and out upon the vast dark matter of the world.
Then I realized: it didn't fail.