A Line Made by Walking
Page 25
Gillian Wearing, Signs that Say What You Want Them to Say and Not Signs that Say What Someone Else Wants You to Say, 1992–93.
Wolfgang Laib, Pollen From Pine, 1992.
Martin Creed, Work No. 227: The lights going on and off, 2000.
Jo Spence and Terry Dennett, Final Project (What 1991 felt like . . . (most of the time)), 1991–92.
8 HARE
Urs Fischer, You, 2007.
Henrik Plenge Jakobsen, Everything Is Wrong, 1996.
James Lee Byars, This is a Call from the Ghost of James Lee Byars, 1969.
Robert Morris, Untitled (Passageway), 1961.
9 HEDGEHOG
Adam Chodzko, God Look-Alike Contest, 1992–93.
Giuseppe Penone, To Unroll One’s Skin, 1970.
Joseph Grigely, b.1956.
Piero Manzoni, Artist’s Breath, 1960.
Conrad Shawcross, The Limit of Everything, 2010.
Antti Laitinen, Bark Boat, 2010.
Wolf Vostell, Berlin Fever, 1973.
Gregor Schneider, Dead House u r, a project beginning 1985.
Richard Long, A Line Made by Walking, 1967.
Kasimir Malevich, Black Square, a series beginning 1915.
Walter De Maria, The Lightning Field, 1977.
Rudolf Schwarzkogler & Ludwig Hoffenreich, Aktion, No. 42, 1965.
10 BADGER
Wolfgang Laib, Milkstones, a series beginning 1975.
Ian Burn, Xerox Book, 1968.
Tom Friedman, his studio in graduate school, 1989.
Roman Ondák, Good Feelings in Good Times, 2003.
Tehching Hsieh, One Year Performance, 1980–81.
Marina Abramović, Rhythm 0, 1974.
Rachel Whiteread, Place (Village), 2006–08.
Francis Alÿs, Patriotic Tales, 1997.
Bas Jan Ader, In Search of the Miraculous, 1975.
Joseph Beuys, 7000 Oaks, a project beginning 1982.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Lucy, Jason, Lisa, Sarah, Helen, Jenna and everyone who worked with them on this book. My thanks to John and Virginia Stamler, for their Iowan cabin, and the Lannan foundation, for the continuing adventure. My thanks to friends, both human and animal, and to family, both here and gone.
PROLOGUE
He is running, running, running.
And it’s like no kind of running he’s ever run before. He’s the surge that burst the dam and he’s pouring down the hillslope, channelling through the grass to the width of his widest part. He’s tripping into hoof-rucks. He’s slapping groundsel stems down dead. Dandelions and chickweed, nettles and dock.
This time, there’s no chance for sniff and scavenge and scoff. There are no steel bars to end his lap, no chain to jerk at the limit of its extension, no bellowing to trick and bully him back. This time, he’s further than he’s ever seen before, past every marker along the horizon line, every hump and spork he learned by heart.
It’s the season of digging out. It’s a day of soft rain. There’s wind enough to tilt the slimmer trunks off kilter and drizzle enough to twist the long hairs on his back to a mop of damp curls. There’s blood enough to gush into his beard and spatter his front paws as they rise and plunge. And there’s a hot, wet thing bouncing against his neck. It’s the size of a snailshell and it makes a dim squelch each time it strikes. It’s attached to some gristly tether dangling from some leaked part of himself, but he cannot make out the what nor the where of it.
Were he to stop, were he to examine the hillslope and hoof-rucks and groundsel and dandelions and chickweed and nettles and dock, he’d see how the breadth of his sight span has been reduced by half and shunted to his right side, how the left is pitch black until he swivels his head. But he doesn’t stop, and notices only the cumbersome blades, the spears of rain, the upheaval of tiny insects and the blood spilling down the wrong side of his coat, the outer when it ought to be the inner.
He is running, running, running. And there’s no course or current to deter him. There’s no impulse from the root of his brain to the roof of his skull which says other than RUN.
He is One Eye now.
He is on his way.
You find me on a Tuesday, on my Tuesday trip to town.
You’re Sellotaped to the inside pane of the jumble shop window. A photograph of your mangled face and underneath an appeal for a COMPASSIONATE & TOLERANT OWNER. A PERSON WITHOUT OTHER PETS & WITHOUT CHILDREN UNDER FOUR. The notice shares street-facing space with a sheepskin overcoat, a rubberwood tambourine, a stuffed wigeon and a calligraphy set. The overcoat’s sagged and the tambourine’s punctured. The wigeon’s trickling sawdust and the calligraphy set’s likely to be missing inks or nibs or paper, almost certainly the instruction leaflet. There’s something sad about the jumble shop, but I like it. I like how it’s a tiny refuge of imperfection. I always stop to gawp at the window display and it always makes me feel a little less horrible, less strange. But I’ve never noticed the notices before. There are several, each with a few lines of text beneath a hazy photograph. Altogether they form a hotchpotch of pleading eyes, foreheads worried into furry folds, tails frozen to a hopeful wag. The sentences underneath use words like NEUTERED, VACCINATED, MICROCHIPPED, CRATE-TRAINED. Every wet nose in the window is alleged to be searching for its FOREVER HOME.
I’m on my way to purchase a box-load of incandescent bulbs because I can’t bear the dimness of the energy savers, how they hesitate at first and then build to a parasitic humming so soft it hoaxes me into thinking some part of my inner ear has cracked, or some vital vessel of my frontal lobe. I stop and fold my hands and examine the fire-spitting dragon painted onto the tambourine’s stretched skin and the wigeon’s bright feet bolted to a hunk of ornamental cedar, its wings pinioned to a flightless expansion. And I wonder if the calligraphy set is missing its instruction leaflet.
You’re Sellotaped to the bottommost corner. Your photograph is the least distinct and your face is the most grisly. I have to bend down to inspect you and as I move, the shadows shift with my bending body and blank out the glass of the jumble shop window, and I see myself instead. I see my head sticking out of your back like a bizarre excrescence. I see my own mangled face peering dolefully from the black.
* * *
The shelter is a forty-minute drive and three short, fat cigarettes from home. It occupies a strip of land along the invisible line at which factories and housing estates give way to forests and fields. There are rooftops on one side, treetops on the other. Concrete underfoot and chainlink fencing all around, its PVC-coated diamonds rattling with the anxious quivers of creatures MISTREATED, ABANDONED, ABUSED. Adjacent to the diamonds, there’s a flat-headed building with unsound walls and a cavity block wedged under each corner. A signpost rises from the cement. RECEPTION, it says, REPORT ON ARRIVAL.
I’m not the kind of person who is able to do things. I don’t feel very good about climbing the steps and pushing the door, but I don’t feel very good about disobeying instructions either. My right hand finds my left hand and they hold each other. Now I step up and they knock as one. The door falls open. Inside there’s a woman sitting behind a large screen between two filing cabinets. There’s something brittle about her. She seems small in proportion to the screen, but it isn’t that. It’s in the way the veins of each temple rise through her skin; it’s in the way her eyelids are the colour of a climaxing bruise.
‘Which one?’ she says and shows me a sheet of miniature photographs. As I place the tip of my index finger against the tip of your miniaturised nose, she ever-so-slightly smiles. I sign a form and pay a donation. The brittle woman speaks into a walkie-talkie and now there’s a kennel keeper waiting outside the flat-headed office. I hadn’t imagined it might be so uncomplicated as this.
He’s a triangular man. Loafy shoulders tapering into flagpole legs, the silhouette of a root vegetable. He’s carrying a collar and leash. He swings them at his side and talks loudly as he guides me through the shelter. ‘That cur’s for the injection I
said, soon’s I saw him, and wouldn’cha know, straight off he sinks his chompers into a friendly fella’s cheek and won’t let go. That fella, there.’
The kennel keeper points to a copper-coated cocker spaniel in a cage with a baby blanket and a burger-shaped squeak toy. The spaniel looks up as we pass and I see a pair of pink punctures in the droop of his muzzle. ‘Vicious little bugger. Had to prise his jaws loose and got myself bit in the process. Won’t be learning his way out of a nature like that. Another day, y’know, and he’d a been put down.’
I nod, even though the kennel keeper isn’t looking at me. I picture him at home in a house where all of the pot plants belong to his wife and the front garden’s been tarmacked into an enormous driveway. His walls are magnolia and his kitchen cupboards are stocked with special toasting bread and he uses the bread not only for toasting, but for everything. ‘Any good for ratting?’ I say.
‘Good little ratter alright,’ the kennel keeper says, ‘there he is, there,’ and now I see he is pointing at you.
You’re all on your own in a solitary confinement kennel beside the recycling bins. There’s a stench of old meat, of hundreds and hundreds of desiccated globules stuck to the inside of carelessly rinsed cans. There’s dust and sweet wrappers and cardboard cups whirling in from the whoomph of traffic passing on the road. There’s the sound of yipping and whinging from around the corner and out of sight. It’s a sad place, and you are smaller than I expected.
You growl as the kennel keeper grabs you by the scruff and buckles the collar, but you don’t snap. And when you walk, there’s no violence, no malice in the way you move. There’s nothing of the pariah I expected. You are leaning low, nearly dragging your body along the ground, as though carrying a great lump of fear.
‘Easy now,’ the kennel keeper tells you. ‘Easy.’
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About the Author
SARA BAUME studied fine art before earning a master’s in creative writing. Her first novel, Spill Simmer Falter Wither, won the Rooney Prize for Irish Literature, the Sunday Independent Newcomer of the Year Award, and the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize, and was short-listed for the Costa First Novel Award. She is also a recipient of the Hennessy New Irish Writing Award and the Davy Byrnes Short Story Award. Baume lives in Cork, Ireland.
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