With this song, Brahms stands up with his room and his window and his sub-couchean hole. The house stands in front of the petrified viewer as a decimated bowel tract. For one single moment, one scream—actually, a formless cry coming from neither the stage nor the hall, but the inside, whatever inside means, carrying one message and one message alone:
That can’t be.
The moment that is the chasm between being and coulding. During this dark moment, the stage spits its guts in the viewer’s face and recoils back into itself.
Everything once visible is now seen in hindsight, in hindsense. Yet, no one can grasp this, no one knows what-was-there, let alone is able to perceive the amount of people, rooms, cells, tunnels, halls, laboratories, mountain passes or ranges. All of it morphs in hindsight —into one single awareness of disgust of disgust.
The house is too full.
Thereat, upon viewers in amounts above one in the hall—the spectator and listener having become unified, it may be that each of them caught something, though hardly the same thing. Whether a chimera, a torture chamber, the doorstep to a count’s castle, the cellar hall of the alchemist, the round table of the masks, the…
The potentialities of what was seen are beyond me. I may only guess according to what I myself have seen, and should not guess according to what I haven’t. From here on out, the play disseminates; each one sees what the hindsense reveals (deceives). If someone goes entirely undisplayed, she may sit in utter darkness and silence, thinking she is dead.’
Madis Kõiv, „Turba philosophorum“
Point cloud: Paco Ulman
PUBLISHED: Maja 101-102 (summer-fall 2020) Interior Design
