One afternoon I had nothing to do. That is to say, nothing I found worth my while. So I made my way to the gallery.
Down town, activity was practically nil. A fog, thick and creamy, had descended upon the city. A listless breeze occasionally interrupted the density, revealing landmarks, and the remains of a carnival. Confetti and streamers, deflated balloons and other artefacts lay strewn in the streets along with broken bottles, half-eaten foods and the odd, forsaken garment. Someone had fun. Overhead, the lazy beat and flap of banners, their legends anonymous in the fog. It was the only sound. Not even my footsteps penetrated the lull. I felt as though I was walking on air. Shadowy figures would from time to time materialise from out of the fog, only to disintegrate a moment later. The street lights were lit, but their arguments were poor. The fog prevailed.
The fog‘s density in the green area around the building was extreme. The gallery grounds lie lower than the streets and the stately structures that flank them. Paths and lawn slope gracefully down to the bottom of the basin where a thicket of bushes, including some lavish flesh-coloured rose, grow at the feet of a scattered group of deciduous trees. These have been allowed to grow tall and scored and crooked, spreading their mighty branches across lawn and path, bush and gallery facade. On bright days this brings on a quaint and subtle play of shadows throughout, and during summer the gallery grounds are a refuge of cool patches and soft green lights. It would be quite a charming little place, if not for the gallery. The gallery is one of these sombre, concrete monsters, seemingly isolate, though situated in the very heart of the city, with minuscule windows, like beady eyes, and an entrance remarkably Neolithic. Hardly even a building, it looks and feels unfinished – a huge stone slab deserted by its sculptor before they even had conceived its nature and who, disillusioned by the enormity of the project, discarded the entire idea.
Well, anyway, at the time I arrived, this fog had the gallery grounds firmly in its grasp and had nestled there thicker than anywhere else, as fog will in lowlands. I had to keep my eyes peeled to the path that led to the entrance and when I did let my gaze stray, I saw bushes and tree trunks partly consumed by fog and leaves and rosebuds coming out of nowhere. Several times was I torn by thorns and twigs that dwelt unseen behind the grey cotton air. I half expected the scarlet jaws of the Gmork come rushing out at me at any moment.
Having followed the full length of the path, I was abruptly confronted with the towering entrance. I entered through the portal and descended the steps. The gallery is always open.
© 1994, 1995, 1999, 2003, 2010, 2019, 2022, 2024 Kirstin Sørensen
