Thursday, January 11, 2007
Hotel rooms, amidst the measured queen size bed, the table lamp and the basket of fruit, have their own passive life.
When I first arrived in Somerset, for months I was at this hotel, unremarkable in every regard except one. It had a large framed print of "Lament for Icarus", the print itself was of average quality. Uneven colors, and not particularly well framed either.
It's a Victorian Nude of course; Icarus lies dead by the sea after his flight to freedom ends in disaster. He is tended by nymphs who hold him and lament his unfortunate death.
Daedalus, imprisoned by King Minos, devises wings built out of feathers and held together by wax, as a means of escape. His son Icarus follows him in flight. Once in the skies, Icarus, apparently convinced of his abilities of flight, gains altitude and the sun melts his wax bonded wings. The young man falls to his death in the sea.
The months I stayed in that hotel room, at times I stared intently at the print, at most other times was oblivious of its existence. On sleepless nights, with a village in slumber beyond the window, Icarus and the lamenting Nymphs often came to life.
No magic realism, no emerging characters, no talking nymphs.
Like a ghost beyond the horizon.
After sleep, after blinding light.
After the fear of heights and the depths of the sea.
A place to rest your head.
The afterglow of life. Beyond the middle place.
