Act one

Uri Zamir puts the viewer in the detective position, facing a long clothes rack typically found backstage, on which a mirror and a sword, winged feet and a mask hang side by side, waiting for a hand to grab them and bring them to life, for a story to envelop them and us. For Zamir, whose background is in theater, the gallery functions as a stage, and the viewer is much more than mere audience member, he is also the actor himself, deliberating in front of the character's props, just before going on stage, or shortly after playing its role and stepping off it. Nothing in Zamir's works is quite as it seems. The “Don Quixote” like sword is made of an ear of corn, and it is doubtful whether it can protect anyone. The flying feet, identified with the winged sandals of Hermes, the messenger of the Olympic gods, are equipped with bat wings, as if they had given up the possibility of bringing good news. The ostensibly soft, hairy face mask is made of sharp, spiky plaster, and the wooden mirror does not reflect our image, but the prophecy it carries. Between the pathos of theater and the despair of reality, a new character takes shape, assuming and removing costumes and wigs, hopes and disappointments, equally ridiculous and threatening. A requisite is a stage prop; a theatrical accessory, indispensable for advancement of the plot. Unlike the set, which provides a background for the story, the prop is activated by the actor, who redeems it from its status as yet another object, making it a significant part of the story itself: the gun in the first act, the cloak of disappearance, the sword covered in blood. In a world that seems to stand still, Zamir's props insist on trying to advance the plot. At times when the absurd has left the confines of the theater, they allow us to imagine, if only momentarily, that we, too, can control the end of the play.