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Perhaps art will be smaller, more mobile, light, and foldable - a shelter even. A way of sheltering. Perhaps art will be full of care, full of heart (heartfelt). Or perhaps all cold smooth hard art will still be just that. Yet rumbled creased stressed and opening-out like a voice.
Heart, an architecture, heartsick. And the heart(h). Perhaps it will be large and clear, so visible it confounds. And, in that, asks for a possible love of form, which talks itself into an unknown waiting (breathtaking) world. Art of sorrow, regret, obsession, welcome (art which risks the welcome (shelter), and the chance of betrayal).
It's not that "things" are unlike this (welcoming, generous, faithful); it's more they act "not". Not-acts mounting up, gathering together like weapons. There is no surety - years pass. There is no "new" (except the dreadful) - years pass. The night is cold, an object (an art of cold-nights). Nothing adheres. People fall.
Art might be a conversation, and vulnerable for that; such terrible things happen: it is us: language - the ways we think and talk about and to each other.
Adieu muse: we are starkly alive: hello muse.
Language is such a dream, a world of wonder and terror, of weird shapes, sounds, volumes; and, language is a possible clearing (for pleasure, doubt, memory, mistakes, threat, pain). It's more than "the world", "such" tense: a new tense, reaching: welcome stranger. What height and depth and width is that, an approach; again, a divine invention. (All around: dangerous new dimensions (DNDs).) A spectre, it will all become strict security and spare spectacle. In a "world" of speed, we are stilled. A stillness, trembling, and kind. Pack a bag, see what happens. It has been all over for a while, yet its language (its place and space, its time and tone), persists, it stays like beauty; always possible/impossible, and appearing like fruit and grass, nourishing, resistant. An amorous approach.
Art does get thought / made after the disaster. There is poetry, after (amidst) everything. And romance is (remains) either non-poetry or poetry (both remained-modes of the unsaid, while saying what is to be said then - poorly, threadbare, ugly, broken (at that time, in the shiver of what (has) happened).
The disaster happens, and speech and writing erupt, and the air is crazed with the sounds of words, one by one, amounting, in double-speak (within itself, within each single word). Unimagined events, tiny, massive. There are no events out-of-place. Every event takes place as-it-places-itself in the account (our listening speech) of the everyday, in the con/text of our love-of-language, or not, and our love of "events".
The world as and of appearances and things. Things appearing, appearances becoming (imbuing) things. And still (quietness, image), and yet, what is made of/with appearances, of/with things (in the company of both), of an ecstatic "thereness", a voice which stutters, a body which stumbles, a calling or crying in the calm indifference of a warm blue day; what is made of/with this: "Language is punishment. All things must enter into language and remain there according to the degree of their guilt." (Ingeborg Bachmann) - "In this sense, the serious word is the one that never forgets that language is punishment and that we are all, in speaking or writing, suffering a punishment." (Giorgio Agamben, "The End of the Poem, Studies in Poetics", trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen, Stanford University Press, Stanford, 1999: 131)
There may be nothing to discover, it might be already here. There may be everything to discover, it will be (therefore) already here. Borders are places, and the matter-of-art might be time itself - the time it takes to be, the duration of each lifetime.
Linda Marie Walker
Sydney
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