Bitter Familiar

What is it with gooseflesh? Invisible ripples cast from a distant/not so distant shore, configures my skin into miniature mountains, hairs stand high, the nape of the wind blasted treeline, heavy legs climb the stairs. I feel it blow through me, seen indirectly: disturbance on the surface, freshwater ripples, forearms, shoulders, the back of my neck.

100 years of De Stijl; centenary of the line, the double line, an ellipsis drifting over from one millennium to the next. How bold, how modern, how full of hope: out of the cave and towards the light, beyond the fireside shadows towards my truth and yours… squinting, blinded, back into the darkness, open the gates, saltwater streams in, bitter, familiar.

I turn away from Marlow Moss to find they overlaid my vision: window, subdivided sections, street line, skyline, the rectangular face of a building cropped within a single pane. I can’t turn away from Marlow Moss, can’t escape from Mondrian.

Top of the stairs, the walls drawing closer and drawings on the walls. The dim light, the lines are here that measured your advance: double, triple, quadruple, growing in the silent night until finally the gates are opened. Saltwater rushes in.

Your father’s voice on an endless loop in the back room.

Your father’s voice on an endless loop in the back room.

Your father’s voice on an endless loop in the back room.


Relflections on 100 Years of De Stijl at De Stedelijk and Anne Frank House, Amsterdam, April 2017IMG_6773

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