Text: Hilla Toony Navok
As Far as Matter Goes
Merchandize is stored in the dark and exhibited in the light.
I went down eight steps, the beat of music turned to silence.
In the basement, the bolts are set side by side, all crammed, waiting for the moment they’ll be transferred to Ground Level. From the back-of-the to the front-of-the, from the cardboard to the shelf. In the warehouse, they are handled by dirty fingernails. Upstairs, it’s nailpolished pinkies.
I’m waiting for them to load my merchandize into the car. And suddenly I imagine the opening of a wall – two separate areas becoming a single space. The bolt is released from the cardboard box, rolls out and unfurls in the warehouse. “Look,” it says, “that’s what you can do with me.” For a moment, the material extends through its entire length. It is tightened, performs as it is expected to do, casting its shadow above me. A minute later the material loses its ambition. It lets go, shrinks – all the way back to the floor.
When does matter reach its limits? At what moment is the desire to be seen replaced by the desire to vanish?
The merchandize has been placed in the trunk. I start the car, and drive off.