marble dust

Season: SS 10
Fotos: Alex Kohout

Silence.
The house refuses to tolerate any noise and we move with that in mind. We discover room after room on tiptoes, avoiding creaky floorboards.
We cautiously press the doorknob down, having the thought the soft pressure could break it. The parlour door opens without a sound. There's a yellow, late-summer light coming through the window, radiating over dancing dust and tiny particles. I search for my enthusiasm shared in your face, but all I see is a furrowed brow. All of a sudden you turn away and then I know: the final seconds before your ear-deafening sneezing begins. House-dust allergy.
My fingertips touch the surface of an old round table standing in the middle of the room. Old lacquer and a velvety bow of dust cover the table, transforming the previous shine of painted wood, the gold leaf, and marble into a matte. It makes the sky blue, the sunset yellow, the sunset light up red and dyes the aurora.
You say: Fixed particles in the atmosphere, refraction of light, optics. You're pragmatic, but you're lazy too. You'll do no cleaning, and as long as we're here - until it's too cold, sometime in autumn - nothing will startle me, except your sneezing.