I found myself wandering through the narrow corridors of a vast library, right at the very top of the mountains. Staying steady on one path was a difficult task in such an extensive archive. However, I could hear a mysterious bell singing constantly, every time I turned a book’s page.
These humming bells seeped through the book bindings as if they were the clouds slowly emerging behind the mountains. I found you there first. You were posing as the object of the painting, the detailed rendering of the scientific book, and on the embroidery patterns. I saw your happy portrait on the chocolate wrapping paper and on the wooden souvenirs. You were peacefully grazing on the steep hills, above the clouds; a vision of your silent plot.
It came as no surprise when the book’s spines turned into the warm animal back. The crisp white pages felt like sweet milk. The endless lines, every path you roam. The words, the rambling hoofs on the grassy slopes. Your breath, the steam of the grass and the echo of the clouds: the valley was the open book. You also told me the story of how you spend your time amusing yourself by imitating the shape of clouds and how they replied back with the same games. I couldn’t tell if I was in the library or on the field, the inner and outer world seemed the same.
It was clear then that the library and the valley shared a common substance: the space created by the books, between all the timelines and phenomena and the projection of every desire, was a dreamy construction, as was this vertigo caused by the clouds and the cows playing above them.
November 2018
Text: Marianne Hoffmeister Castro