Exhibition at The Project Room, Nansensgade
There was just a small ray of light hitting the ceiling.
Though summer had long gone, and though the ray was short-lived, the light was warm. He saw it, and his mind started tumbling off to a long gone, yet still mesmerizing time. A purple van with youngsters, flowing through ripe fields of barley, and never-ending pine forest. The smell of jasmine and wildflowers, a breeze so gentle and quiet, hitting the square in the small town with nobody – except him, it appeared, noticing. No neon. The purple van crossed a bridge, passed the home-gone-gas-station, and a worn-out circus, then drove into dusk. Later that night it stopped by an old hotel. Someone walked up the quirky staircase on worn out heals, through curtains bleached by years, and stayed for fun.
A man lit his weed, and before the butt hit the tar, the car was back on road and it was blue now, like her nails, and had a smell of chamomile and perfume, and a secret of its own. The secret in the dish is the sauce, the waiter whispered to him, serving yet another secret with the meal, then showing him his back. And he knew that though we say we don’t keep secrets for each other, he in this moment was desperately longing for the young man with those sad blue eyes, while she, who lingered to the toilet, brought all her queer secrets with her to the restroom.
Welcome to the room of secrets.
Some are yours. Some are mine. Some are ours.