"At Bay" considers the horizontal viewpoint of a bedridden figure; a forced horizontality. It’s a frustrated, anesthetized sight. A sight that privileges the image plane of ceiling panels hovering parallel above her head, or the eye of the lamp glaring down at her. A tilted neck reveals sock-tipped toes, and the sun rises and sets peripherally in the bedside window. Curtains meant to shield her body hang like sterile ghosts, with inevitable, anxious gaps between them. Their long figures seem to taunt her earthbound axis.
From this viewpoint, it is necessary to leave the outline of your body. You invent, layer and fold images in on themselves until they become almost entirely muted or disappeared. You join the dancing figures in the pastel-colored print on the wall, peek over the curtain to the bed next door, and descend to dress your bandages. You prod your collarbone and lick your hair back from your face. Hovered now nose-to-nose with yourself; at bay.
You relax, you put your body parallel to mine, you rest it on sterile textile. Your breath stinks. You want to kiss me. We kiss and the smell is totally there. It mixes with my hot saliva through the tender, warm movements of our mouths, like pollution blending with a setting, round sun. Let’s go to a place called sunset in a polluted city. Let’s go to the bay. Together the sun and the pollution create a breathtaking orange…. and our cells renew until they don’t.