The Great Market Hall clock said it was already past four pm, but it was still boiling. The pillar of Liberty Bridge loomed over the Architect as though it were the Eiffel Tower; perhaps it bore the handiwork of the Master* himself, which is why he’s so fond of this bridge. He mused for a few minutes above the Danube as he strode toward the University. Every nail, every sheet of iron, was a friend. The slender steel arches wound bent left and right, back and forth; what could it be if not the old willow tree letting his feet, those tiny cast iron vines, hang into the water, little leaves high up, large avians perched quietly on the pillar peaks, resting forever. The vines grow beyond the treetops, and the steel dandelion parachutes of the railing float in the late afternoon’s orange skies as the wind off the Danube caresses the city. The roots of the bridge penetrate the thick gravel blanket underneath the water deeply.
Walking along the embankment, the Architect noticed that the whole city could fit under the bridge, from palaces, granaries, and railyards to even the striped airships all floated under the Liberty Bridge. Even the lamp-posts that reached skyward preferred bending into a spiral to avoid hitting their heads. The Architect was supposed to make a mock-up for the next day, but now he found that his scissors, essential for the job, had somehow ended up on top of one of the bridge’s pillars, and he was a little worried about the fate of the iron birds.
And the world shrunk around him, and finally, a tiny seed enclosed it all. Autumn came, winter, new years came, the spherical ones and the square ones, and then the new Millennium with its many zeros. From time to time, the Architect looked at it: the small world, enclosed in a core, grew more and more colorful, never the same twice. Cold blues and winter greens, sometimes enchanted turquoises, orange sunsets from Australia, or flaming crimson storm waves blazing angrily, the last time bright fairy-tale colors glowed in the pitch black. He couldn’t remember when Lili’s cat, Mustache, had climbed to the top of the palace or when the distant dome of the Basilica had floated over the bridge, but indeed, there was a reason for everything. An older Architect, now gray hair, looked back at him from the mirror.
*Gustave Eiffel
Mixed media / Giclée print / Shipment
100x70 cm or larger prints are limited editions with serial numbers.
Colors printed on paper or canvas may slightly differ from those shown on the monitor.
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