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2017/10/23 - 15:22

On the Gallery (transl. Maja Sinn)

If some decrepit horse riding artist sick of tuberculosis were driven around in circles in the circus arena on a swaying horse by a whip-swinging merciless boss for months without pause, whirring on the horse, blowing kisses, swaying with her waist, and if this play continued under the never-ending roaring of the orchestra and of the fans until the ever-opening gray future, accompanied by dying and newly rising applause of hands which actually are steam hammers ­ maybe a young gallery visitor would hurry down the long stairs through all the aisles, would hurl himself into the circus arena, would call Halt! through the sounds of the fanfares of the ever-adapting orchestra.

However, since it is not so; since a beautiful lady, white and red, is coming flying in, in between the curtains, which the proud uniformed servants are opening up before her; since the director, looking devotedly for her eyes, is breathing towards her; lifts her precautiously onto the dapple-gray horse, as if she were his beloved granddaughter who is wandering on perilous paths; cannot decide to give the sign with the whip; finally gives it loudly in self-conquest ; runs along the horse open-mouthed; follows the riding girl’s jumps with attentive eyes; can hardly comprehend her skill; tries to warn with English exclamations; furiously admonishes the wheel-holding grooms to minutious attentiveness; conjures the orchestra with raised hands to be silent before the grand somersault; finally lifts the little girl off the trembling horse, kisses her on both cheeks and does not deem any praise of the audience sufficient; while she herself, supported by him, high on the tips of her feet, fanned by dust, her arms spread, her head laid back, wants to share her happiness with the whole circus ­ since it is so, the gallery visitor lays his face on the balustrade and, getting lost in the final march like in a deep dream, cries without knowing it.


Revision: 2011/01/08 - 00:18 - © Mauro Nervi




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