Swans appear in hoodies, loitering at the edge of a lake. With both grace and disguise their elegance is obscured by a costume of anonymity. Camouflage.
They remind me of Kenny from South Park, whose voice is always muffled. The swans, too, are strangely muted, as if trying on the awkwardness of adolescence or the protective armours of urban life.
Really, they are hunting equipment. They are there to signal something very normal: a peaceful milieu of leisure and rural tradition. These are items that might circulate on Facebook Marketplace alongside well-worn boots and fishing knives.
The marker makes a faint but indistinct squeak as it moves across the whiteboard—a soft, whispering sound that shifts with the pressure of the stroke. Erasing comes with its own sensation: the eraser gliding over the glossy surface with a mix of smoothness and resistance.
To-do lists unravel into minor cosmologies of obligation, their neat checkboxes dissolving under the weight of accumulation.
The list becomes a world, the world becomes a list.
A runner in starting position appears, but never departs. Her body locks, falters, breaks down again and again before the race ever begins. Mountain Peaks. Every attempt to move forward is folded back into repetition, every beginning already tangled with its undoing.
This is a scenario of interruptions, of messages left hanging, of equipment without its user.
By Jonathan Bue
Kilde:
Classeværelset
Classeværelset