Mittwoch, 16. Mai 2012
Artificial. White and clean. For a second I'm relieved that I took my shoes off before I went inside ... I would have wounded this flawless sanctuary with my muddy feet. As far as I can tell it's still raining. I take off my wet jacket and step into the shady foyer. My socks make no sound on the clean white marble floor, but every breath I take echoes through the halls. It is very cold in here .... maybe even colder than it was outside...
One painting bigger, more ravishing, more fascinating than the other... I leave the first masterpieces behind and start to explore the exhibition. One of the paintings catches my attention: "The Nightingale". It depicts a beautiful, young woman with long black hair. One side of her face is covered with a mask made out of feathers. She takes notice of me .... or so it seems. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to look away.
I'm thinking about stealing her. Nobody would know, nobody would ever find out. I look into her piercing eyes... they can read my thoughts. I retrace my steps to plan my escape route... It makes no matter now... once I'm outside they won't be able to catch me. But the rain might ruin the painting, so I should cover it up with something. How will I carry her? Will I get her through the window? There are no guards here... I wonder why.... I shouldn't touch the fine canvas, or I might ruin the painting.
The nightingale looks at me with her somber eyes. Unable to follow on her own will she still does not want to be stolen. I tell myself that I cannot take her against her will. I tell myself that, over and over again. "I cannot take her, against her own will". And yet it is so hard to let go, so incredibly difficult. I want her to look at me, I want her to stay close to me. How can "doing nothing" be so difficult? And suddenly I'm angry. I'm angry at the clean white floor and the artificial architecture. Angry at these modern paintings and fake emotions they depict. Angry, that they are not like "The Nightingale".
I leave the exhibition through the front door. The rain has stopped and the air feels cold on my skin. It's time to go home, time to wake up.
Eingestellt von Simon um 09:34