Poetic Responses: Analia Saban @ Sprüth Magers

text by Claressinka Anderson Pugliese

 

Her fabric ensnares you
in this velvet house
of skin,
of blackness.
She is trickster,
moving towards a
beguiling destruction,
steady with restraint -
a dancer poised for collapse,
each perfect limb folding in on itself.

She wears a corset of cement,
her pointed toe balanced on a spider web of stone,
inching delicately across the tight rope.
Ascending the stairs,
she showers in the bathroom,
a hair woven through luminous skin.
A boundary here,
between what is seen and not seen –
a pulsing body wrapped in burnt paper,
glowing on black waves.

Outside her window there is only night.

You cannot enter,
(come in)
touch her and you’ll find she’s smooth,
run your finger along her origami moon,
caress her absent cheek.
A folded sphere -
is there such a thing?
Perhaps you will find it here,
setting over a draped horizon.

 

Minimalism –
such beauty breaks the heart a little.