Preparing for a show –‘Phase’, Green on Red gallery, October 11 – the approaching deadline seems to draw everything into its vortex. Work speeds up, energies are spent, thinking becomes strained under the pressure of conclusion. Though the pressure to finish can’t be denied, it’s really only a pretend ending. Perhaps nothing can be made sense of without an end, or at least the sense of an ending.
Gardens back onto the river that runs through the park. The wall of one has an imitation heron guarding over the garden’s ornamental pond. The real heron is only a few feet away. Unimpressed by his imitation, he stands, one legged, on a submerged rock, gently clawing the passing water. I haven’t seen him catch anything yet, but he must do because he has been fishing this stretch of river for months.
Running across the wet grass Frankie crosses the white borderline that separates the pitch from the surrounding area. On one side of the drawn line a set of carefully worked out rules hold sway, on the other side, chaos. Frankie crosses with impunity, without sense of the division he conquers.
Several small weirs control the flow of the river. The largest one is close to the concrete steps leading down from the pathway to the waters edge. If you look into the water just before the drop, the surface appears still, clear, and unmoving. Two feet later it is cascading over the side. The weir’s backwash traps debris in its wake, metal cans and small branches, and footballs turning perpetually, running backwards against the river’s flow.