Kate Walters responds to Mike Stubbs’ brief “All you can do is glean information from the tiniest fragments. Trying to see everything makes you ill.”
- The protector of vision, Santa Lucia
The dust in my nostrils, the dead rat in the gutter, the cornetto for my morning food, the hot morning, the fear I feel, the hot crowd at the station, the jarring of the watery scene, the buses and the clanking; the bright rush of orange, blocks of colour like paintings on fruit stalls, I buy strawberries and wash them, sit beside a canal to eat, all in a rush; swifts swoop; hot tears from eyes brought here to bless; consciousness now of how clearly I remember the beginning, the first footsteps, the dusty responses to morning, but not the later times and days. I see the froth of a wedding dress, and I remember sitting on the cold floor watching the screens on Graham Fagan’s installation, and the milky glass of the chandelier like frozen canal water hung high; and the feeling of warmth and relief at finding the group, or, rather, having them find me; and the red dress in Helen Sear’s film with the numbered trees, and the rape, the arrows, the yellow (always yellow). On waking my chest had been tight and I had known something was wrong.
Kate Walters on Twitter: @Katehorse