
Solstice by Misha de Ridder until August 28, 2011 in Foam photography museum Amsterdam >
Poem by Maria Barnas in the Foam cahier about the exhibition:
WILDERNESS
1
A black physiotherapist in Iceland invited me
for a walk. He looked at my hips
and I saw a future.
He said your posture is wrong.
Shoulders back and chest thrust out
I trudged through the snow pale as my surroundings
and he moved magisterially in the white.
As he pointed out the summit of Vatnajökull
the snow crunched beneath my feet.
The earth’s crust cracked and split
until I stood stretched tall under an ice-cap.
I was just able to see over the ice.
Into the world where the physiotherapist
knelt and reached out his hand to me.
I remained standing. I stood at the centre of the world
at the centre of an astonished universe.
Icy water splashed around my feet
in a crevasse beneath the ice-cap
into which with a single step
I could vanish for all eternity.
I was there. I believe I’ve been to the edge
of the wilderness. But while I stood at that place
it was white inside my head. Empty and cold
and only later did the memory take shape.
Have I really been there? Was that actually me?
There’s little wilderness in my life.
I can pronounce? the word.
It sounds good and unrestrained.
2
Misha has travelled to the last wilderness of Europe
he says kneeling on a carpet of maps
in his studio that depict the frayed edges
of Norway. This is where Hermans walked
he says. We are silent out of what must be reverence.
We look at marks and virtually imperceptible lines.
And here I walked. The landscape is a sculpture I hear.
Every fjord a melted glacier.
Misha describes the fjords as a surface
on which you can work as if on a wall since you’ve lost
the horizon. Nature he says is indifferent.
And what does it mean to be a human being?
I ask him were you ever afraid.
Death is nearby in the wilderness he says.
We stand up from the sketched mountains
and tower above an inner courtyard
where on the roof of a car park
a garden has been laid like a tablecloth.
No one is allowed in. An area of green like a painting
that invites an imaginary walk.
A meandering path and a tree here and there.
On the horizon Rembrandt Breitner and Mondriaan
like rocks in an overgrown landscape of asphalt
and brick. Did the artist do this?
The surroundings are as deceptive as the evidence
of wilderness he brought back to Amsterdam.
I invent landscapes he says.
But we stand in the midst of them.
Share