I barely moved from the chair the whole night, thinking of all the dead I’d once known and who had gone with an inadmissible ease. I spent the night in this misty humorless zone thinking that what was happening to me was going to stay with me forever. But at dawn, everything changed: at first just slightly; then, in a more dynamic way.
At seven on the dot the taxi arrived. I went downstairs with my suitcase and my laptop. At reception, as I’d imagined, Alka was not there; she probably hadn’t set her alarm. It was obviously too early for her. The day looked splendid, magnificent, marvelous. Stealthily and slowly, the black taxi slipped through the deserted streets, and for a moment, I feared I might encounter the image of young Kassel leaning against a rough wall, weeping in silence for the end of Europe.
But no. Kassel too, like all the dead I’d once loved, had disappeared, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The taxi driver was Chinese. I was grateful for this last detail from the curatorial team. Even his Chinese cap had meaning, and noticing it led me to understand that I was back in a zone of luminosity and joy.
Art was, in effect, something that was happening to me, happening at that very moment. And the world seemed new again, moved by an invisible impulse. Everything was so relaxing and admirable, it was impossible not to look. Blessed is the morning, I thought.