the name of a book, composition, or other artistic work

It is a kind of love, is it not? How the cup holds the tea, How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare, How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes Or toes. How soles of feet know Where they’re supposed to be. I’ve been thinking about the patience Of ordinary things, how clothes Wait respectfully in closets And soap dries quietly in the dish, And towels drink the wet From the skin of the back. And the lovely repetition of stairs. And what is more generous than a window?1 As I write this, the new moon has just been born. Today, the moon is two days old and 6% illuminated. I was kind of fixated on the idea of writing the exhibition text on the new moon, not really sure why. Perhaps because when the exhibition opens on the 24th of March, it will be just one day before the full moon. A full cycle will be almost complete, but not quite. The phases of the moon tell us the passage of time in the sky. But lunar time is very different from the time that ticks inside the clock. It offers us more space to stretch things out. It‘s a time that exists on the side of the one we have created for ourselves, the one we strictly follow. The moon time is more of a suggestion. A second option for us to consider, or ignore. When I was little, my cousin and I used to hide under the big round table in the kitchen and pretend it was our own house. I remember examining that old table from underneath, imagining it as a roof, admiring all its nooks and corners. Sunlight and time had faded the deep brown of the varnished wood. I liked to secretly scrape off the old coating and watch it wrinkle under my nails, softened like wax by years of touch. The legs of the table were the elegant columns supporting the roof of our little pretend house, revealing large windows between them. And my grandmother‘s many layers of long tablecloths were the curtains that made us invisible. I liked the perspective we had from underneath, only seeing the lower part of the world. Slippers, carpets, power sockets, the layer of dust under the couch – a horizon under the horizon. Framed between the legs of the table, all the familiar views of the kitchen looked like stills from a film to me. The white curtain, slightly moved by the air coming from the open window. A reflection of light on the floor in a strange shape. A slightly open drawer revealing hidden treasures and crystal glasses. I saw the world under the table as a world in-between, where I could always retreat to. Where everything was somehow the same, but not quite. As you move through this exhibition, I invite you to do what my cousin and I did and play a game of pretend. Welcome the idea that what you see may be a suggestion rather than the ‚real thing‘. It might change or look different this afternoon or tomorrow. Look between, behind, under and through. And perhaps, while you are in this space, consider following another time and ignoring the one on your phone screen. Remember: This may not even be a real exhibition, it may just be a pretend one. 1_The Patience of Ordinary Things, Pat Schneider; From: Another River. First Edition. Amherst Writers & Artists Pres, 2005