At about the same time another man runs for his life. His bare feet almost do not touch the icy ground as he tries to move faster than the huge ship behind him that is breaking the ice he had crossed just a moment before into big white islands. He is running towards us but he cannot come closer. We are out of reach.
To be more precise, we are sitting in a dark room that is illuminated by one source of light pointing at a blank canvas. There are no other sources of light although we know that out there in this district of the city, lights are directed onto streets and shops and billboards and museums, but this is of no interest for us at the moment, as we are forming our own district by means of a source of light and some folded lines. In our district there are borderlines forming landscapes of extension and intension, enclosing points, expanding and limiting zones between us and our neighbours. Just like in the following image:
Every fold produces a double-fold of interior and exterior, a folded landscape that blurs the boundaries of inside and outside vision. Does it matter if these images correspond with a materialized outside? Or do they rather describe an inside, an introspective, a projected ground upon which each single imagination draws its own district?
In the inner district of imagination linger images that might have been taken in the outside, at a specific time of the year, in a specific light; still, if we look at them now, the outside is out of reach – we might as well take them as images of a dream about strange forms of life.