do I start with the market stands? apples?
cheese? vegetables or
even more?
do I mention the masks and
the distance? the tension?
I barely remember wearing the mask.
two women stood behind chairs in long coats,
and two people were sitting on the chairs.
viewers formed a circle around the women, who
were combing the hair of the two on the chairs.
a room
a silent room
a tender space
a sacred space
touches, locked away for months,
caused an almost forgotten closeness,
a small tremor, like
a sudden gust
throwing me off balance.
then the disinfection of the hands and the comb, but
the gestures were tracing memories in the air.
I sit on the chair and
a woman gently is combing my hair,
combing through all time and skin.
my scalp is spreading.
Sabine sits on the other chair and
is combed by Neda. an Iranian
performance artist brings us
out of the distance with a hair performance
in public I ponder. Was it an omen?
then the disinfection of the hands and the comb, and
she lays the comb in my hands and sits down on the chair,
and I comb her hair,
silently I comb her hair,
the long soft hair slides through my fingers.
around us, the marketplace busy for Sunday
rolls towards the weekend.
