CORNUCOPIA
A generous artist, he thought, sharing with the wide world such a hook; on the wet curve’s slope were anchored teardrops. Those were made of glass.
There was silence in a white cube and a whole wet curve. Otis ambled the room. The wet curve was bright orange, unclouded, hollowed out of a crystalline stone the size of a small moon. He had seen a breast before, and a peach, by the same artist which, without reference to time swarmed up together in his memory. He smoothed a hand over his breastbone. Long flat bone, soothed in awe. A generous artist, he thought, sharing with the wide world such a hook; on the wet curve’s slope were anchored teardrops. Those were made of glass. Otis was seeing prompts everywhere, playing roles in his own narrative where he was merely, a participant.
He was standing there aloof. Musing, in flight mode, tides and inflections not imagined, looping, ghostly—very real. In any case Otis was not yearning for static. There was more than enough to look at, and this is why he needed the time: to take it in. From behind, tickling softly, gently seething, footsteps, tick-tack. To preserve the continuum, the affinity, Otis smiled. And the wet curve widened still.
Right before the collapse the footsteps crescendoed. Isn’t this piece great? Tartly startled, Otis carved a tunnel back to gravity. Spent the following minutes in friendly banter because, because. He had noted humans tend to favour chit-chat over contemplation, even in sacred spaces. That said, the wet curve resonated just the same. Most artefacts do—just as an orb—if you let them. And it was only and always in retrospect that Otis could trace a trajectory. He deemed artists emphasizers. Illusionists! On the lookout, Otis saw only the cues. Lest she missed the point, he was the cosmology.
Nevine Mahmoud, Wet Curve, Calcite and glass, 12.7 x 24.1 x 5 cm, 2018
A version of this story appeared in the University of South Alabama’s The Oracle Fine Arts Review, in 2020.