A precinct is marked out. With the cleanliness of a pilgrimage without purpose there is the walk, the infinite repetition of a basic movement that frees the mind from its quotidian subjection to the body. Thinking, the destination doesn't matter, the place is neither here nor there, just limpid ghosts, half remembered forms where you begin again, physical commas that punctuate an internal scrutiny whose rhythm is that of a hundred thousand treads. The lost anchorite searching for something, peeling away illusions, digging underneath appearances in a mental archaeology of sentiments, each wandering step sounding sharply out as it ricochets between panels and niches, orderly, decorous and resigned, reconciled both to the absolute need for the endless march, and its timeless futility.
Back to top