Artistic Flights

December 26, 2011

desert-hallucinations:

Wardrobe by Stéphanie CohenFrom Reykjavík, the e-mail travels across the Atlantic. A girl writes to a boy: “I will come to see you and cook a dish that belongs to me.” Two months later the glittering girl slides down the motorway. A message shines in the sky for her. In red dot matrix letters it reads {traffic fluide}. The sun is rising, the girl dressed up in a thousand lights crashes in a hotel room. A piece of dried lamb is supposed to arrive by the Milky Way from Iceland. In {déshabillé de jour}, she waits all of the afternoon. Six o’clock and still no meat. Adorned with a yellow-suit, the girl calls a cab. The taxi driver comes from afar and speaks seven different dialects. The girl, rearranging a purple shirt made from one single panel tells him: “I’m waiting for ten people tonight and I have no food.” He replies: “Emergency situation, I’m your man.” The car shoots off. The driver takes her to a huge grocery store. There, she buys dried fish, caviar, saffron, hot red pepper, cinnamon, fresh ravioli, mushrooms and milk. Her top has no back. She rearranges it in a peculiar way, then she needs cream. But the girl doesn’t understand any of the words written on the packaging labels. So she takes every one of the containers likely to hold cream, opens it, digs her finger into it, sucks her finger, then puts it in the caddie. She collects six of them before obtaining the right taste in her mouth. She grabs a few blinis, goes by the cashier and back into the cab. The polyglotious man is still there. He takes her to the boy’s address. When they reach the place, the girl leaves her skin on the back seat. Armed now with a pink dress inlaid with metal strips, the woman she had become, climbs up four flights without losing her breath. Once there, she slips into the kitchen, sautés the mushrooms in butter, then, she improvises a sauce… She throws in a few things: apple juice, rhododendron honey and mayonnaise. She prepares the fish, cooks the pasta, leaves the sauce to simmer, runs her tongue along her upper lip, lets her soul cry out, laughs with the boy.

Wardrobe by Stéphanie Cohen
From Reykjavík, the e-mail travels across the Atlantic. A girl writes to a boy: “I will come to see you and cook a dish that belongs to me.” Two months later the glittering girl slides down the motorway. A message shines in the sky for her. In red dot matrix letters it reads {traffic fluide}. The sun is rising, the girl dressed up in a thousand lights crashes in a hotel room. A piece of dried lamb is supposed to arrive by the Milky Way from Iceland. In {déshabillé de jour}, she waits all of the afternoon. Six o’clock and still no meat. Adorned with a yellow-suit, the girl calls a cab. The taxi driver comes from afar and speaks seven different dialects. The girl, rearranging a purple shirt made from one single panel tells him: “I’m waiting for ten people tonight and I have no food.” He replies: “Emergency situation, I’m your man.” The car shoots off. The driver takes her to a huge grocery store. There, she buys dried fish, caviar, saffron, hot red pepper, cinnamon, fresh ravioli, mushrooms and milk. Her top has no back. She rearranges it in a peculiar way, then she needs cream. But the girl doesn’t understand any of the words written on the packaging labels. So she takes every one of the containers likely to hold cream, opens it, digs her finger into it, sucks her finger, then puts it in the caddie. She collects six of them before obtaining the right taste in her mouth. She grabs a few blinis, goes by the cashier and back into the cab. The polyglotious man is still there. He takes her to the boy’s address. When they reach the place, the girl leaves her skin on the back seat. Armed now with a pink dress inlaid with metal strips, the woman she had become, climbs up four flights without losing her breath. Once there, she slips into the kitchen, sautés the mushrooms in butter, then, she improvises a sauce… She throws in a few things: apple juice, rhododendron honey and mayonnaise. She prepares the fish, cooks the pasta, leaves the sauce to simmer, runs her tongue along her upper lip, lets her soul cry out, laughs with the boy.