Everything reconfigures when echoes are sleeping, a passing breath,
the light-filled spaces are untitled, undated – a conversation. All the same,
all different. The relative invisibility of permanence.
She brings together ruptures and rejections, images shift in the human head.
The myth, that things remain constant. A beach about to crumble back,
this delicate, strange and fragile world can recall the forms.
The prototype as mute as sculpted figures, often vulnerable, and even
frightening. Nothing comes to describe the same unformed idea.
Looking back, they seem to grow, curving into the earth.
I gaze up – space reserved to imagine.
Found from the Guardian Article: Marisa Merz at the Serpentine: the first lady of arte povera. By Adrian Searle.
This is a found poem – a poem taken from words found in another source. To see the original source, please click the link above.