Escaping Time

One of the reasons I often walk alone in museums is that it is the easiest way to escape the time dimension, that we commonly know. I don’t need to do much to get this result: I just walk, allow my eyes to be captured and follow them.

I am sure everybody has the chance to get the same feeling. I think how many times a song was tuned on the radio, and it moved me to a different level. When it was finished an hour or a minute could have passed, I don’t exactly know.

Experiencing this feeling of time dilation is simply addictive.

Last Friday I have been to a photography museum in Amsterdam. I don’t even need to know who is exposing in a museum: I go and it happens again.

In one of the rooms, I immediately noticed Troy who holds a Guinea Fowl Chick in a jail in New York. I remember his name, which was on the written description of this photo. It also said that in the same complex, riots and fights happen every day.

I am not sure how long I have been staring at this picture. I immediately jumped back to my childhood and to the feeling of surprise when, as a little child, I found something new in the courtyard: a new flower, plant or little animal. That idyllic image of myself collided with the condition of a prisoner I had in front of me, until this mismatching disappeared. I thought that Troy was looking fixedly at the little chick and he was mesmerized exactly like me, as I was in the same wonder looking at him. We were in the same dimension, caressing the same planet.

Another picture dragged me, or actually, a little green detail captivated my sight.

I did not read the description of this photo, I just liked to think this plant was bravely fighting for a drop of light and I thought: I like this story.

And as a karmic counterbalance to this bold challenge of nature I glanced at something that forced me to an acrobatic jump into myself.

I immediately focused on a detail of it, because I love details. I thought I had seen this picture before, in my mind. It was the image of sufferance and struggling with no hope: being vulnerable and exhausted, like a plant in the desert which eventually gives up.

I sketched something similar on a little booklet some time ago and, despite what had pushed me drawing it, I felt thrilled to have visually encountered the same concept, with a different medium. Another match on to the no-time planet.