Henning Mortensen


This man sits on a chair by the sea. It is the sea of feelings, but it knows nothing of this. The sea has no understanding of art and literature. The man is surrounded by effigies who will eventually topple forward, burying their pointed noses buried in the sand. But what do THEY know of this?

The chair is a sign.
And the spirits rising from the sea at night, assume the characters of hieroglyphics rather than angels (or something similar that might threaten to Bow into pure infinity).
The man, meanwhile, is not a sign. He is the center of the world, and is nauseous. His entire midriff is one blackened mass, whilst sealed upon the chair trapped both within himself and between the abnormally elongated and totally untrustworthy custodians.

The man has journeyed through the forest in order to reach the sea. One may assume that it is a relatively peaceful forest. We can forget the enchanted labyrinth. We can forget Grimm. The brush is the machete.
Before entering the forest, the man lay in the embrace of his woman, and during those weeks, a vast golden joy Filled many of the days and nights. Though it is a miracle, the lovers do not consider it odd that they are blessed with a daughter, whom they name Petra.

In precisely the same way that the sea is unaware that it is the sea of feelings, so Petra has no knowledge of the fad that her name is derivative of Peter, let alone the reason for this.
And despite this abundance of soaring joy, the man has set himself upon a chair beside the broiling ocean after his long and solitary wanderings in the forest. And whilst he sits there, sway-backed and dizzy, speculating about how long youth should celebrate it's own pathos, murder grows within him.
He must venture forth, seek out his origins and hack them to pieces, blending this mush into his own colours.
The blood, the lymph, the brain matter, the atomised nerve fibres and the now totally shortened furrows must go into the pail with the paint to be stirred round and round in the blue and yellow, red and brown. And then this mighty death can be ressurected again on each of the empty canvasses insistently blowing round inside his head.

Yes, this man sits on a chair by the sea.
They once attempted to murder him with their noses. But right now the noses are either hammered into the sand like carrots of stone, or blended together in the great paint-pots.
Ordinarily the man is extremely modest, but when he finally gets a taste of the world, he takes so many and such large bites that one is inclined to think he will manage everything in just a few swallows; that he will devour the entire universe in seconds.

Otherwise he is quiet and reserved and, as stated, extremely modest. Upon his chair. Holding a small and bloody nose in his mouth.


Henning Mortensen

Sondrup, juli 1992