5 posts tagged “drawing”

(The photograph is of a smaller installation of the sculpture at Leslie Tonkonow's Gallery in New York.)

Link to Reina Sofia's page for the exhibition. (Spanish and English versions available.)

Each one of the songs was a perfect hit. No misses, my dear. All of them were quite beautiful. All of them hit the right spot. Wherever she chose to sing, wherever she chose to let others hear what she had to say, there was less violence, increased plant grow, riper fruit.
She flew from forest to forest, inspiring generations of Chickadees, and not only her own species, others too. Soon there were bears humming her songs and rabbits dancing the dances she proposed. Foxes were writing down her scores, deer ran for miles to just hear her sing.
She was a true blessing to forests and parks... so good, so good.

Originally published on witoldriedel.com on August 16, 2003

It was all very loud and very clear. All at the same time. All with the same intensity. There was a spectrum of though, of course, but overall, her conscious was an uninterrupted stream of very well digested knowledge. Every hour on the hour, her imagination came down to a single magnetic point. Then the world exploded into thousands of voices.
She knew so much more than she would ever be able to share with anyone, ever. Though the sharing part was also only possible when it happened without any delay. She was able to say what she thought, right away, instantly... never ever what she remembered. She just did not remember.
Or she did, just not well enough...
Sharing was her specialty though. She was really good at focusing on a tiny sliver of her vast spectrum of thought. When asked for the right story, her monologues could be anything from simple spoken words to laughter of children to grand interpretations of beautiful compositions as performed by the worlds best orchestras under the direction of the most renowned conductors. Like that. Perfectly sung by her large and very well calibrated speaker (She made it all sound a little richer than it actually was). Not interrupted by any of the other things going on in the world.
She loved to come along on country trips. Friends would gather around her on a blanket in the grass and she would sing and tell them stories until her batteries made her feel heavy and tired and sleepy.
She would then often awake early the next morning, with weather on her mind. Then there were more important events. Urgent traffic data. Markets.
The days were often spent with playing Satie or Chopin to the cats. Evenings could be filled with excitement and summaries of the day.
Much of the fun ended once the television arrived. The dumb and graphic television, all about pictures, pictures, pictures. It took over as if it were an altar for some universal religion of dumb. It could also be extended with memory modules of various sorts. Canned superficial dream simulations.
The stereo also boasted with its ability to speak with two voices at once. And it also remembered stuff... (Except it rarely had anything new to say... and if it was new, then it was actually pretty old...)
Then came the computer, then the iPod. Over, out, too much...
The accident sealed it all. The fall was so unexpected, so violent. The floor would not have been so bad, had there been any carpet on it. And it was actually the water bottle that had been left by the table that broke the glass. Now the scale for frequencies was not protected. It was completely exposed. Touched again for the first time since the factory. How embarrassing.

She ended up whispering up to the minute stories to the old typewriter and the burned out super8 projector in the darkest depths of the closet. (Unable to change the station, she somehow came off as a bit narrow minded and not overly bright...)
It took years before they took her out again. It was a summer afternoon. Just like the ones she liked best when spent by the river.
She found herself on moldy blankets, with a little price tag attached to her antenna...
She wondered if she would ever be able to share anything with anyone again, or if she would just be crushed into pieces and become part of a landfill.
After several hours in the sun she was touched by a pair of hands. They were not as strong as the ones that used to carry her around. They were incredibly investigative and careful. A very careful fingertip touched her dials, then the exposed frequency scale... the hands paused... one hand turned her dial and the other gently followed the movement of the frequency marker.
Never before had she been touched in such a meaningful way...
Something told her, that this would be the most loving and meaningful relationship of her life.

Originally published on witoldriedel.com on August 08, 2003

Toucan or not Toucan. This was her present question. Was it wiser to stay and to be present when there were children pointing in her direction, when there was outrageous laughter around her, or cries, or love, or from time to time a real bird catcher... or should she instead spread her wings and disappear into the dark depths of the forest, end the entire presentation, become a pure and sweet memory, become a glowing shadow in the vivid imagination of others? Just disappear. End the love affair with the visible. Turn off the cameras, close the eyes, first the own, then the ones of others.
It felt as if it were just the right time to look for a completely different branch, a tree, a forest. She was so good at reinventing herself. After all, only the shallow minds thought of her as a colorful, light beaked bird. The wise knew her as an immortal phoenix.

Originally published on witoldriedel.com on July 31, 2003

She spent years and years learning languages and cultures in night courses. She understood nearly 1500 dialects, could howl all 19 owl languages. She was a very well read owl, seriously. Her hearing was so incredibly great and not only did she hear all conversations, she also remembered them.
Her family had the tradition of being consultants as far back as Athens.
This should have been the glorious part of life. This should have been the relaxed time. Kids were out of the forest, the mortgage on a barn was almost paid off.
So why for heaven's sake did the mice still have to party every single night?

Originally published on witoldriedel.com on July 03, 2003