The sax swings freely rising and falling on the notes he coaxes out, dancing around the bass’s rhythm, the brushes caressing the drum heads. You close your eyes and allow the music to carry you off. It is at the set’s end when he unfolds the white cane that you see you share a common blindness.
As you walk through this particular space will you see a small child perched on a stool, crayons in hand, a small rectangle of paper on the top of the desk laughing, creating a world you could never hope to understand, or an older woman, leaning on her walker, staring into the canvas, struggling to see each brush stroke and three workmen white hard hats, retractable rules and laser levels, measuring the gallery against the blueprint which are artists — which is art — does it matter?
He is certain that the sky is always blue and when it seems cloudy it is just that Magritte has risen from his grave and brush in hand, painted the sky and clouds. She scoffs at the idea knowing full well the clouds are merely rice paper cutouts floating on a gentle breeze.
It is remarkably simple, really, a single circular brush stroke in a monochrome black on rice paper, always nearly perfectly round, never is the circle complete, always some small thing left wanting. You stare at it, more at the small gap, imagining it filled, hoping it cannot be for it holds out the promise that this moment is all that matters, that you are, at any moment, where you ought to be on your path, that thoughts of tomorrow is no more than an illusion , nothing other than the enso’s blank space.