It’s time to welcome the magnolia, her pink flushed cups, petals tight on black twigs, her cold courage, a clench of fuck yous aimed at winter. No one picks her. Twisted off, she’d taste astringent as chicory, puckering the mouth, resisting all the way. You can’t drink from her acid chalice. She’ll choose her own sunlit hour to drench in citrus, to throw away all she once held so close to the core, against a glare of blue sky and sudden rain.
after Urs Fischer
In the window, Dasha melts for the public, a lit wick in her skull. Her fondant pink frock (Oscar de la Renta) is a slow slippage on a translucent shoulder, and combed-out wax tresses trickle onto her breast. She burns, says the gallerist, for a buyer who’ll check this deliberate very public dissolution, who’ll snuff her out, and strike her alight on high days or holidays; and who, when she gutters completely (her apricot heels a hardening puddle in a pink-and-white lake) will scrape her up, recast her — and consume her again. Her candle, aflame, confronts her creator. Who is there to save her now?
(In response to ‘Dasha’, 2019, a sculpture by Urs Fischer)