Mysteroius
The man in the fridge
This is all about the eye. The eye is seduced by the shapes, beguiled by the gradients of color, gently lured in by the lines. The mind intrudes, asking “what is it?” But the eye is unconcerned. The eye is pleased by what it sees and asks no questions.
Those deliciously dark, enigmatic blobs bob above a horizon line that dictates no horizon. That shadowy, arterial globe has an emotional gravity that drags the eye to it as inevitably as the moon draws the tides. The mind intrudes again, demanding to know “what is it, what the hell IS it?” But the eye will not turn away; the eye has its own answers.
“Tell me,” the singers in Merchant of Venice ask, “where is fancy bred / In the heart, or in the head?” Sometimes fancy is bred in the eye…or in the refrigerator.
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