silence in the eyes
of their audience. The gallery is cold and pale
like lost lover's lips,
and these wisps
tacked to opal-backed
cinderblock are her final words. I don't make it a habit to try to find death in the art of undergraduate students but winter is in it's final stages and in that way, it feels as if
even death is dying.
Cut pieces of paper nailed to downy feather white, but the bright
ness of this space is fleeting and I can feel my heart beating
faster at the realization that all of this is
temporary.
Next week, a new installation and I hesitate to call this one graceful
- even though the tendrils of paper remind me of a dancer's legs
because it's existence is so abrupt, a blip in the timeline,
too easily destroyed considering how much time
was put into it's execution.
And next week, an execution.
Where does art go
to die?
Bethel University Johnson Gallery
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