Imagine the rusty sound of a long-forgotten country song. The American dream of freedom and the hardship of pursuing it. You cannot really make out where the sound is coming from and it doesn’t seem to fit the environment. But it makes you aware of where you actually are right now. In a Scandinavian capital, in a back yard, somewhere or nowhere. The sound fades away as you become aware of him.
He’s old as Methusalem, all dressed in white. As a frail wizard, he’s sitting on his glass throne while his mild gaze hovers above the crowd that is not there.
Apart from you and her, there is no one.
She takes a handful of black ink from a jar on the ground and smears it around her mouth and eyes in her white-painted face. Her body is wrapped casually in long pieces of white gauze. In her left hand, she holds a black carved ritual stick made of black wood. It’s heavy and long. She swings it around and around, again and again in big circles above her head all the way to the sides and lets it sweep along the floor. It’s raining heavily and the course of raindrops alter when she hits them with the stick, creating a beautiful flow, like a skirt of rain around her body.
Her warrior cry is penetrating the silence.
She paints with rain. It’s a gift to a newborn.