The Opiate, Winter Vol. 12
From the Gallery Timothy Robbins In this Caillebotte, the crewcut on the right, nearest the wine, is not frozen mid-utterance. He makes his proposition and is rebuffed. He points out an unscraped spot and the gruff center snaps at him. The left, oblivious, inwardly recites Marxist slogans to the rhythm of his scraper. I’m entranced by sweat, cologne, wood curls and torso shadows cast onto white reflections. I accept the superficial resemblance to Golgotha. With me this day in paradise, courting splinters. Here hangs a depiction of cardiac arrest’s unwelcome illumination. Here’s the sound of distant vuvuzela. Here buildings implode (not to make space for replacements) while the concept of gift dawns on a child’s face too late, and an old nurse pulls tissue after tissue from a box, trying to find just the right one. The next room is for abstracts. The left panel of a triptych means at every moment every country is losing its soul. The middle panel says the soul isn’t real. The right says though it is impermanent it can never be lost. A huge tapestry contends that thought is simultaneously a weaving and a pulling at threads. The audio tour explains: we are looking for eternal shade we shared on a sweltering day, an unkind omission we were proud and ashamed of. If not certainty, at least its sensation. In an especially dim room there are surrealist collages showing the End Days when judges queue up dressed as Rockettes I’m afraid to walk past lest they kick my head from its pedestal. There’s a big wheel like the one from The Price is Right sectioned off with all the places I’ve ever stepped. I pull down like a bell-ringer and watch the wheel gradually click still. I don’t recognize the prize.
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