Looking into the operating microscope, I hold the tiniest pair of stainless steel forceps, & within them sits a mouse calf anterior tibialis. I just move my hands. The artist is the hand that plays. I squeeze once then let him go. In twenty minutes he’ll be awake & I wonder whether he‘d dreamed he was dying, if he could see himself in all my dangerous paintings; a string of anxious forms, co-dependent, no life of their own once separated from each other. My electron micrographs show synaptic clefts as the curving lines of a foaming shoreline, tailing waves; an axon terminus as smooth pebbles & rocky outcrops at the foot of the dunes; & a sarcomere recognisable vaguely & fleetingly as an offshore coral reef, a scattering of fishing boats. I’m down on the monochrome beach, teeming with endless sea shells, water-eroded stones, & floating weed. There are oddly-shaped eyes everywhere. Surrealists could liken a nucleus to a beach ball or the sun, add a rush of childhood memories. Yes I can hear the tide, taste the salt of this little world inside a world inside a world.
Feature image via 'Art Collection - The Metropolitan Museum of Art'