longing for a place never once called home

Billie Engleking
Taylor Lind
Ami Robinson

 

Curation & Text

by

Effe Nueberg

opening reception
32 E Broadway Oct 15th 6-8

Oct 15th - Nov 30th
Thurs-Sun 12-6

off hour viewings by appointment

 

Dew glistening on the fruit of life in the garden of hephaestus drips timely into rippling puddles on the soft volcanic earth. On a morning like no other, a morning like so many others. On a bed of lichen moss, they rose from the huddled mass, smoking embers giving the last flickers of warmth. They stretched and groaned. They kept the blankets close, fending off the crisp finality of dawn bringing another day. Inseparable. Joined at the hip. Since birth from the clay. They drew close to the wet leaves of the silver tree. Suckling. Gently. Taste buds grazing the flora edges barely, only enough to satiate. After and before in reverent bows, keeping pressed open palms to thier breasts all the while. Mouth’s watering at the sight of the amber skin bouncing invitingly among the branches.

 

Her toes squeezed the mud in circular pulses. There is nothing comparable in feeling. Nor in heaven or anywhere else to be found among sensation itself. Reaching the pit embedded within the carcass of fallen fruit lying on the ground, her thumb and index enacted a smooth pincer grasp plucking the potential with a visceral rip of clinging membrane. Hardened wrinkles only awoken to bring forth life upon a key combination of natural phenomena. She scooped a handful of moist dirt. She proceeded to envelop the seed. Compacted with finger prints, a mud sphere remained when she completed the task, wrapping it in her clothe. Carried away to freshly prepared acres.

 

They watched, they whispered. They found themselves mirrors of themselves, enamored. They saw her do it. They said, “there will be more. we thought there were no more”. They said nothing, no will in their lungs, only wind respirated. The wind spoke through them, where it blows. Where it blow no one knows or can say.

 

Will alone. Art itself, by art itself it was accomplished, it was done. And what is that exactly? It is it and that’s it.

 

Who may eat of the tree of life? Is there anyone around anymore worthy or willing?

 

The day had gone. It was over as twilight sparkles emerge. Kissing blossoms to sleep, calmly. They folded, velvet petals, silencing their fragrance. Cresent scythe reaping heat. Dry old wooded bones sparked, engulfed in flame. Huddled, they hummed themselves to dream. They hummed in chorus the songs that gave them life. An undulating hum drifting over a craggy moon lit jutting boulder laded hill side. Tones deep and shrill reflecting on mineral origins. Tones heaved and sweet absorbed by shrubbery. Melodic tones vibrating the silvery bark throughout the orchard of life. Subtle tones of sublime ecstasy wafting across shimmering night.

 

She went home to her Lover’s arms.

 

 

 

Complete Details via info@charmoliciarmoli.com