Cornelia Parker We sit in Barts. The reception area has three windows. Sashes. The light spools in. Outside, in the quad, I can hear trolleys. Birdsong. Traffic. Smithfields burns in the sun. Others wait with us, texting, eating, reading booklets and newspapers and letters. Above our heads, hang a line of teapots, urns, candlestick holders. They dangle on fish wire. Each object is coupled with mirror one of itself that has been steam rolled. The silverware appears bruised. Sometimes the colours are pink, golden, grey. The piece is still. Pure. Suspended in space. I look up and find the pieces shadows hitting the ceiling and the walls. Its beautiful, I say. Yes, says the Moose. Like sitting under a table cloth. The Moose gets out this Iphone and takes a photo. Different angles. Different zooms. My eyes wander again. They find a white board. There are the surgery times. The list of the doctors names: Auer, Braithwaite, Simpson. Then a fourth one: Le Dieu. I smile. How is that possible? Is that really his name? The reception area gets busier. More appointments. More patients. More files. Cornelia Parker, says the Moose. Where? I say. The piece. The silverware. Shes the artist. Oh right... I look up again. With fresh eyes. I remember her work from the Turner Prize. The exploding church. All the burned beams. Now, above us, hang her soup terrines and her sugar bowls. And before us, sits a doctor called God. #tumblrblog #rumchester
Posted on: Thu, 04 Sep 2014 07:41:49 +0000
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