The Ships
No water is there, nor waves, but only hot sand
The keel screams in the quicksand
The ship's strakes lament in the sand
Argh's people do not sail, they do not take to sea,
For Argh's people are mighty and his fortress strong
"...the night moths fall sizzling into my candle flame and I begin to identify with them.
These vessels are not related to the idea of travel. Their creators' hands were not guided by some submerged "desire of Voyages" or "desire of sailing". There is nothing here of the ship's ethereal flight, of the water caressing the ship's body in the still-scorching heat of the sinking sun.
The role is to be found in the cargo, in symbols, with the weight of which the curtains of everyday life are breached... These are the vessels of memory with the weight of their symbol-loaded cargo in which we flounder as we search for its meaning. It is probable that the final journey of the dead person's ashes towards their last resting-place requires some kind of dignity, which here the vessel lends to the dwellers of the bare and barren mountains. Here, the seemingly random objects create a considerable personal burden. Memories of journeys and sword stabs in tight straits are mixed with the sign of the successful conclusion to the wild boar hunt. All of this around the decorative container, which when broken open releases nothing but colourless ashes...
The ashes that remain from flame-licked royal bodies. Why do horn and dagger protect the dome? Why does the first wind not disperse this grey nothingness..."