Illustration from The Ship That Sailed to Mars, by William Timlin. Calla Editions.
So it’s no surprise that I’m captivated by … the colorful stain glass half-circle-shaped windows in most homes here. It’s an odd home that doesn’t have at least one. They scatter multi-colored sunlight into the homes during the day, then reflect homelight out onto the streets at night, making the houses appear bejeweled.
Some say this is after the word for “moon”.
Then I wonder … Do I let the sunlight into my heart into my heart by day and share the light within by night? Is there beauty in my life, inside and out?
…The form speaks of the flight of the soul, which to reach the starry void must tear itself, in agonizing pain, from the chains of matter…
– Katedra (The Cathedral) (2000),
and the geometry of congruent figures kept drawing the eye away from the light. It was not sculpture, of course, since no one had hewn and worked this stone of the Horn. The form, commencing from the first seeds, had eaten into the asteroid’s cold ground and heaved in a wave of nanotransformations until, particle by particle, there rose here the memorial of Ugerzo’s gratitude. But how much can be contained in a seed’s starting algorithms, in an architectonic code of crysthorn? […] Surely all this could not have been provided by the code of an initiating seed. […]
It seems unlikely that the planners had written into the seeds the future position of every piece of Izmir mineral, ergodic autoprogramming doesn’t work that way, one must leave room for chaos. So if it wasn’t the hand of the planners, whose hand was it? Whose was the talent behind this carving? Who gave grace to the fragile angels, put blood lust in the brows of the stalagmite demons, framed the illusion of refractive flow through the Cathedral’s epithelium?
– Katedra (The Cathedral) (2000),
My encounter with Le Carceri, the imaginary prisons of Giovanni Battista Piranesi.
I stood in front of the etchings, and it seemed as if I was standing in front of windows, glimpsing at a faraway world stretching far behind into the wall. The images possessed just enough detail to firmly establish Piranesi’s vision of his architecture.
Where the etching did not fill in, my mind embellished, and it did so with overwhelming intensity. The etchings came to life before my eyes. They were truly windows into another world that was animated and moving. I stood up close to the picture frames and allowed the entire image to fill my vision – it not only did that, but completely engulfed my other senses. Objects and people moved across the foreground; light and shadow flickered; but most compellingly, I heard the world in motion. The creak of wooden drawbridges, clatter and grinding of chains, rumble of a turning wheel, sinister moaning and sighing of wind moving through the vaults and ceiling beams, monotonous drip of water, soft murmur of human voices, the occasional anguished cry.
The prison was alive! Perilously so. Deep inside something cried and reached out, yearning and violently straining to climb through the picture frame. And if I dropped my eyelids and let my eyes unfocus, seeing nothing but the image, I think my soul would’ve abandoned my body and this existence, and instantly disappeared into this world beyond the frame.
I have seen lots of compelling world-building art, pictures that have made me wish that I could enter those worlds and see more. But Piranesi’s imaginary prisons… they not only beckoned, they were the entryway. Indeed, visions of the deeper prison, farther away from the window, were already appearing in my mind. It was as easy as letting go. Sure, it is just a fancy – but what if it wasn’t, what if I disappeared forever? That was the frightening notion. Trapped in an etching. It would be prison indeed.
What worlds do I truly want to live in, with all my heart and being? Once, Tolkien’s Arda. Once, New Crobuzon of China Miéville’s imaginings. No more. I want to live in Piranesi’s endless imaginary prisons: live there forever in eternal solitude and forsakenness. A prison indeed: an austere cold one, a glorious one.
…but at the end of the day, it is just a fancy. And that something deep inside laments Alas! because it is only an etching, a window that I can never climb through, save in dreaming.
I dearly hope that I will dream them, in waking or sleeping.
Written after visiting the “Imaginary Prisons” exhibit at the NGV, 29 April, 2007.