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  • Gerhard Richter wasn't there.

    Everyone else was, they had come to be seen, more than to see. There was art, everywhere, but I looked at the faces, I always look at the faces. He pulled me along from room to room, artwork to artwork. We pointed, we laughed, marveled, shook our heads, turned away and moved on, slowly.

    We had heard rumours that there was a magical core of light somewhere in the depths of the concrete chaos, but that we would have to cross a room full of mirrors to get there. I was terrified, I hesitated, and if he hadn't insisted I would have refused to enter. I didn't tell him, he would have laughed, but the passage scared me. The room was a dim labyrinth, cylinders of glass hung from the ceiling, and I felt like I was walking between versions of myself, all staring past me, into oblivion. I tried to avoid looking at my mirrored images, but they came at me, aggressively, confronting. By the time I reached the exit I was bruised and beaten, out of breath. It had better be worth it, I thought.


    And then, on the other side; this.
  • A giant canvas of moving light.


    A perfect circle, like an eye, and floating through it were immense landscapes in black-and-white; snowy mountain plains, moonlit hills, Aurora Borealis across a vast night sky. Shifting light is all it was, but to me it seemed to contain the world, my world, my soul.

    A circle of light, moving as softly as only light can, soothing the darkness, erasing all noise. Light, like a veil, floating on the wind. Light, like a prayer, or like an open palm. A searchlight, circling, cutting across the white-caps, seeking me out on an open sea of violent darkness, guiding me safely ashore.


    A beacon, calling me home.
  • People passed in front of the circle, like shadows, dark silhouettes blending into each other. I didn't mind them, their faces didn't distract me, the darkness held them all tight. Voices were lowered, snow-covered. Months passed. October, November, December. January, February, March. September. October returned. November, December, January. February.

    Staring at the giant canvas of moving light, I was transported through years of winter, memories of gliding across crisp, white snow, lines crossing the pristine plains, solitary tracks breaking the continuum of desolate silence. Although the room was warm, I could feel the wind against my face, in my hair, embracing me, stripping me of color, stitching me carefully into the light.
  • A cone of light, falling on us, circling us, holding us.

    I felt his eyes on me, I glanced at him and he smiled, knowingly. He hardly knows me, but he knew not to speak, he waited by my side, patiently, still. And after, he knew not to ask.
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