Unto (Rose Window, Sainte-Chapelle, Paris)
DOI link for Unto (Rose Window, Sainte-Chapelle, Paris)
Unto (Rose Window, Sainte-Chapelle, Paris) book
Smiling the logos-smile, sword in the mouth, owed reverence as the fiercest calamity, he comes, and the world unclasps into stray petals around him. Poppy red, the glass here is framed against thick arms of stone; each flicker of a scene stands as a shimmering piece that meets its puzzle like an astronaut meets space. The supplicant and his tree see the sword-tongued Christ in an island torn precisely from the landscape so as to be designed to fit there. A mosaic place for all things, the vertigo of metonymy. Maybe the figure is not praying but reeling, giddy in an orgasm of absent mindedness: where did he put his life? Where are his symbols and prayers, his home, his family? Can he understand the last tree shading him? It is a monster now, singular, uncorroborated by forests or natural histories. Could he return home and find any comfort in old soft clothes? They are hard now, strange and forceful in their indifference. The pattern of a tea cup against sudden blinding light in the window: sick painted thumb. The grasping, bully wrong not of the end but of the end’s shadow and shine. What is the prayer at the fused centre of convention? In one sound, round and bronze like the sex of a trumpet, such a soul will bend and break itself, not in a prayer but an act of escaping surrender.