Cole Swensen

Sand, And Then

if you think of it as glass, you can’t help but then think of it in an hourglass, and from there, you can’t help but think of it as time, and thus of time as something—anything—trapped inside something else that’s made of itself.

Chalk

on the sidewalk, walking away with two or three children in tow, walking on, their game not quite done, and it won’t be, as long as the chalk stays with them—Written, bitten, all be hidden calls the bird from the tree they can’t name. And picks up the chalk again, each writing her own name on the trunk of the tree, clearly, carefully, indelibly, the places we remain.

Tree

To carve a name thereon provoked the storm that marked you in turn: rain, a permanent stain on the skin in which the names come back, realigned: tree to thee, leaf to me, and no scar left, and thus a tree so graciously grows us beyond.

Christian Marclay, Subtitled, 2019

The following pieces focus on a video work called ‘Subtitled’ made by Christian Marclay (creator of the celebrated Clock) Phrases in italics are subtitles that appeared in the piece; small caps are notations of background sound. Images can be seen at
https://dailyartfair.com/exhibition/9448/christian-marclay-white-cube

Visit 1

the voice beneath—everything green—or a lavender streak—music continues—
the forest by other means—my mouth like a gaping wound—the camera pans

what shall I do?—the golf course, the gardens, the men walking off across the
lawn—three of them—and a girl across a field—the films must span almost a
hundred years, in strips some 7 inches high and maybe 6 feet wide bring your

night the radiant sky, or at least the sky now lit where is that light coming from?
the sunflowers and all the candles on the cake—and now we see that they’re the
same. typewriters clacking—I can’t think of what to say—which is to say that

the hands that are rising are red—some glove—and a scarf tied red at the throat
22 strips horizontally layered, gathered by color. Into a whole over 12’ high.
Sometimes it’s the sea—and then 2,000 years go by—(like water)—another,

this one even truer, the outrage of reflection—sky, sky, sky—sentiment drifts—
aerial over the park. Now pink—a magnolia in a million—and then so many
more layers of sea—until the sea closed—(Rise, rise, from the lowering skies)

Visit 2

a large ship across the harbor—clear, logical, organized—the ocean sliced, and
a shard of fire compared to sunlight—shards of sun lying shattered—a shard of
shadow across a flagged floor before an open window—before a window

opens—the flame of a candle or of a paper lantern—Why, Sir, do we fall?—the
only animals here are people—a skirt in a twirl—a flash-colored heartbeat—and
all those feet—they’re dancing, seen from the ankles down—not even in

dreams—No, there are also horses heading off in a long line slowly east and a
dog on a city street—music continues—something indispensable to movies and
real life—filtering through the trees—an aerial view of fields at peace—and

again it all turns green—birds chirping—hundreds of them—leaf by leaf—I lost
something—in the hand or in the lamp—very much alone—a match struck and
thus another candle or is it a fountain seen only at the level of the water and

thus indistinguishable from rain—but happily—where the wind wears thin—a
mirror of course—and the snow, slow, so slow it could be gone. And the hand at
the curtain or the other one, picking up an orange and weighing it in the palm

Visit 3

give me your hand—and then in black and white—the quiet time of memory—
water against water sky after sky—that too—walking slowly—we have time—in
heavy coats by the hundreds—or a lace collar—and suddenly all the birds are

here—hordes of them and we breathe again. It’s among all the oceans that the
subtitles about love are arranged—voices in the distance—and the reflections of
masts cast—it can’t be—where the crows come undone—rags hung out an

upper window—reading adventure stories—the mirror, of course—and then a
series of subtitles posed as questions—both laughing—with the sound of a
helicopter overhead—Can you feel it, the grass—both laughing—bones across

sand and several red balloons ascend—she’s in love—Thus 2000 years pass—I
only remember you and then it all turns blue, mostly open sky, a large raptor,
wings alone—fall asleep with the light on.