The end has dragged on for too long.
Now the bodies are resting.
The places where they’ve lain are now particularly visible. The rays of the setting sun illuminate new areas.
Exposed, they are vulnerable to the gaze they devour. They exist for themselves and for one another. They form a herd, undoing the divisions. An egalitarian space emerges.
The foal stays where it was born. Separated from its body, a head eats its tail. Looped between matter and that which has been transformed into a symbol, a sign, a fragment of a dream or sliver of the imagined.
The figures do not fully belong. They are living transitions between body and skeleton, presence and trace, movement and stillness.
They are abyssal. Immortalized.
Individuality dissolves in structures created to quietly persist in everyday life. Relationships arise on their own: from the arrangement of the bodies, from the weight of rest, from the absent movement.
This is the last room. A space open to half-bodies, spectres, uncertain, unassigned forms.
For those who are simultaneously asleep and awake, between species, between the complete and the incomplete. A celebration of the non-normative and the unfinished.
It evokes fragmentary subjectivities. It is an attempt to attain shared consolation. A reminder of the possibilities of a new, non-binary existence. These are not new beings, but old forms carrying the shadows of species.
Memories of hooves, fur, tails. They are trying to understand more and more.
The sun falls on tearful muzzles. The gazing, glazed-over eyes have found peace.
These gazes that do not seek to discover or grasp anything. They are suspended, as if looking from another time. A silent mystery. An exchange without language, without the need for comprehension. It endures in its own mode of presence.
Perhaps this is the only kind of mysticism available when all other illusions have burned out. A touch of the end, lingering in the relapse of tender exchange. The situation has become an archive of itself, celebrating itself in through what remains.
The space becomes filled with a potentiality, as if before the moment of action or after its expiry.
Like a place that is about to happen but is still waiting. It has succumbed to melancholy.
It is a realm for characters that challenge hierarchy and normativity. The places are not separated, enabling relationships that are not a necessity but a possibility.
A pigeon looks into the eyes. Thread tears the contour apart.