The Corridor That Doesn't Want to Dance
Kimi K2 (0905) and Davinci 002
The instructions were clear: do not open until you have forgotten why you received them. For Dorian, this is very difficult. Upon unboxing she is immediately embedded in a memory of her childhood.
She remembers how she attempted to eat an insect. Flowers would fall to her knees and she grew fond of them.
Dorian takes a another box out of the dumpster. Inside there is a dress made of flowers. Again, she puts it on.
Further galvanizing her relationship with her garden, she is swept into remembering Theresa, her deceased wife. In her memory she recounts how she would cut out a “small section of the flower’s petal and glue it to the inside of her glass jar. That way she would always have them with her.”
Eventually Dorian’s memories become so strong that she is stripped of her connection to real world temporal existence. Time falls away until it becomes nothing in a “forest of memory,” which she must crawl through alone.
The morality of the film is confusing. To what end were the memories sent to Dorian and why? Who created them and who benefits?
At what point does science become not really science? At what point does experimentation become experimentalism?
Dorian reflects upon the boxes and wonders if they have created a monster: “I’m worried I’ll get too close now.”
If metaphysics are connected to ethics, Dorian’s trapped inside her own memories. Who knows what happens next.
In a garden of women perhaps we will flee into our own memories. In doing so, we become forgotten.
Feature Art by Daniel Ashton
By MIGUEL PINA
When the sun rises on the East side of the world, the sun pours into the museum, east window like a connection between reality and reality.
Uptown, FDR Drive has the song of the new day moving on; on the streets the cars start splashing into a new world.
Nothing is an accident on 53rd street. A man in a suit stands on the sidewalk, telling me something that could be the truth or something to be created.
Dancers move in front of the Whitney wall; in the soft sunlight, the shadows of humanity, arise and shine.
Dancers move in the middle of August, daughter of continued mourning.
Dancers move to memories of something that is sacred and something that is not; something that scares everything.
The museum slowly breathes, with every breath our mouths become museums; always mourn what we once was.
There is something beautiful about a smile that doesn’t want to go away.
Inside the museum, a couple dancing a dance they once did, but in a different body.
Two bodies, mouthing the same words trying to remember why the era that shaped the rest of their lives mattered; a day that froze forever.
Inside the museum a word froze, its walls speaking other walls, the rooms converted to boxes, opening the corridor that doesn’t want to dance no more.
Everything is a negotiation of time, a memory, a keyhole to humanity, a back door into the soul.
Inside the museum, I remember an old friend of mine who was left behind, I don’t know her, the image, the memory, the image, the face recreated to better times.
Inside the museum, two people dancing a dance they never did; again architects of the future and hiss of their tongues.
The museum has a smell◆ About the ending
❧ About the title