Switzerland is supposedly a beautiful place. Snowy mountains, crystal lakes, deep dark woods.
Or are those rock-covered mountains, sunlit forests, lakes shimmering with mystery.
The most conventional of oil paintings fails to capture the shifting beauty. And the walls themselves are beginning to melt.
A garden courtyard. Family homes. A slug the size of Thursday. Impossible hands massaging a rainbow of companions, through the window, or are the window, with someone behind it, you inside it, the artist trapped dancing escaping. The rubble of the garden shifts as the sun slides sideways and the music turns upside down, under the water, inside the flowers, floating up the drainpipe to the sky.
Adults become children; children are transported. We are wrapped in a sunny night of eternal play.
And then in the other room things get abstract. The static shapes shift and hover like lakes shimmering with mystery, casting outline traces of eyes on the bottom of the moonscape.
Switzerland is truly a beautiful place.