Empty Spaces

Somewhere in the trees there are leaves decaying on a path. Behind the curvature of the path is a dark, wooded outline and a soft, silvery wind. The heavens and the drifting vapours and the broken tree tops and the sullen sounds and the evening atmosphere and the blazing fire and the deep laughter and the broken rocks and the roaring cavern and the tumbling water and the impenetrable darkness and the water glimmering in the moonlight and the hills and the gloom and the moving surfaces and the quiet uneasiness and the wooded outlines and soft, silvery wind. There is a darkness here that can only be heard. There is a darkness here that is audible. Another voice. Another river. Another mouth. But which mouth? Which river? All the knots of pine can be counted, deposited, occupied. Over there—beyond the hills and skies—spirits rustle the leaves of other forests and the dead listen intently to that noise. When the blood is hot. When black smoke drifts through the camp like fog. When the vapours are inhaled. When the clouds settle onto the trees. When the dark forest erupts into flames. When the light doesn’t come from the sun. When there are broken, naked voices and intense heat. That breathing. That silence. At the furthest edges of the forest there is a cavern. A narrow, deep cavern in the rock.

Artist Statement:

“Empty Spaces” is an excerpt from an ongoing (and largely unfinished) project of mine that is tentatively titled Timeless American Classic. The pieces in this project are all derivations, reinterpretations, and creative distant readings of James Fenimore Cooper’s novel The Last of the Mohicans.

Photo by Flickr user Rody09