This is the closest the crow comes to singing: a scripted language, written with a scratching pen, black tones against a sky no longer recognizable as blue. Against that fierce white glare what can it voice, while here, hunkered in the shade of a room inside a tent of bricks I ache for coolness and reconstruct the smell of rain. Outside in a sky the colour of ash the crow opens its beak and words with umlauts arc, a conversation with the dust: the memory -repeat -the memory of rain. Artlook, January 2005 |
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