The third and final installment of writing accompanying my curatorial residency at Bridge Productions is a collection of five ekphrastic works in response to the Mike Wagner's paintings in the exhibition. With the exception of the one below, these works are what I call confabulatory non-fiction.
This residency has been a journey of growth, sobriety, laughter, and reality checks. Thank you Mike Wagner, Sharon Arnold, and all of you who have accompanied me and supported this effort. Saturday, June 30 is the last day of Mike Wagner: From Fool to World. Please join me and Sharon at the gallery from noon to 7 pm.
I woke up with the smell of wild boar on my tongue. Therefore I gathered my tools, and entered the bush at sunrise. By midday, all the normal sounds of life made their appearance.
A rustling in a narrow clearing in front of me let me know my meal was nearby. I approached stealthily, following the sound of snorts and squeals; some deep, some shrill.
Then came the first four arrows. They felt like mosquito bites, so I paid little attention. (When you have a closed body, even the stuff that gets through does not do much damage.)
The fifth and the sixth felt like bee stings, but since I am not allergic and the wounds were not deep, I carried on.
Arrows seven, eight, and nine landed just above my heart, and gave me immediate pause. I looked down and blood had already begun to cake around the entry points.
I did a 360-degree scan of my surroundings. I saw no one, but heard a very loud snort that was simultaneously in front of me and behind me. I walked backward so I could continue looking ahead. Still seeing nothing, I resumed my hunt. I had heard a few different snorts by now and thought, “The boar must be near”.
I continued walking backward and that is when arrow number ten hit. Dead, in my heart. My body collapsed limp to the floor. My blood pooling, I exited immediately through what was previously my mouth, flew up into a tree, perched, and continued to watch the scene.
It was almost sundown and still no sign of my attacker nor the boar I intended to hunt. Just as the sun was setting, the snorts and shrills suddenly reappeared. Eager to see the boars, I waited until they were in full view. Instead, it was a young hipster kid carrying a squealing baby boar. The kid was squealing back at it in slightly deeper tones interspersed with snorts.
Hipster kid tied the pig to a tree and propped my body up against the same. He took the last arrow out of his backpack, and proceeded to screw the arrow through my brain until it came out the other side. More blood pooled, some drained onto the baby pig, but the kid looked satisfied. He stepped back to get a better view of his handiwork, gathered his baby boar and his book bag, and left.
-when the flavor of your desire is pork, there will be no Irene to the rescue.
Click here, to read the remainder on the Bridge Productions web site.
Negarra A. Kudumu
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