“ So it is that between the horizon and the shore, a change begins to occur in the depths of the sea. It is slow. It arrives late, one discovers it once it is already there.
[…] Before me a color is born, it is very intense, green, it occupies a part of the sea, it retains much of itself in that color there, a sea but smaller, a sea in all the sea. The light came then from the sea, from an overflow of color in its depths, and this black back light, a moment before, came from its eruption, from all parts leaving the waters. The sea becomes transparent, of a glow, of a brilliance of nocturnal organs, it appears not of emerald, you see, not of phosphorous, but of flesh.”
Here is a vision that accompanies me, told by Marguerite Duras in Aurélia Steiner (Vancouver): the rise of a color, blinding, from the depths of the water.
It is entirely the opposite of haste, it is the idea of a great slowness. Something prepares itself, it doesn’t show anything immediately but it announces itself with the power of an indolent apparition. Softly this rumbles and finally comes to modify, to color an intermediary expanse, between the place that we search and the horizon that we examine.
This happens with a delay. It is the introduction of a discrepancy, of an incompatibility.
We don’t rightly know where this comes from or how. An adequate overflow, that necessarily surfaces and cuts out a rectangle, like a screen or a window, in the immensity of the sea. The immensity of the sea like the immensity of a world, its depths like that of memory – an indistinctly moving mass, vague.
And then there is the event, the emergence of a distance that huddles there before our eyes, until then unknown but known once it presents itself, foreign and familiar all at the once, undeniable but evanescent.
At the beginning, there would have been this background crouched below that proliferates, puts itself in movement, converges.