This is called The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living; it's a meditation on Damien Hirst's exhibit by the same name. I got to see the exhibit at the Met and it was awesome.
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| Image c/o googleimages |
Silence. Blood rushes to the ears and brain and quickly flows to the nose, chin, fingertips. Reality vanishes. There is pulsing, a hard pounding from within and, simultaneously, from the skies. Pounding rises from the ground. The heavy air throbs. Yellow taxi cabs and eclectic lighting, the smell of spicy, exotic foods and the hum of crowds are all drowned out of existence. Bright blue thickness surrounds, submerges, engulfs; it is vibrant like the neon advertisements of Times Square, overwhelming like the horns of taxi cab cars, tangy like the flavor of Little India’s ginger, though it is also acidic, stinging, viscous.
Removed from the busyness, a stranger stands in the still water of formaldehyde. He is silent, motionless. Open-mouthed and obscure under a grey coat of collagen, he is suspended. He does not breathe. He makes no sound. His eyes do not blink. Triangular razors jet out of his body; he is built to glide, to puncture. He is water-resistant and oblong and pointed. He does not swim. His jaws are large with sharpened teeth and opened nose holes. He does not sense. He acknowledges no existence. His sandpaper skin has turned to softness. His eyes are blinded and his blades are dulled. He is paralyzed by his vivid ocean, but he remains indifferent. He is encased. He is defeated. There is no threat.
Reality returns.
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