Kunstens gadespejl.

De snakkede om i morgen og om tiden derefter. For i overmorgen ville nok blive bedre end i forgårs, hvis man ellers levede så længe. Residerede Muserne virkelig mellem himmel og fjord, og hvis de gjorde, hvor langt var det så egentlig ude?

De havde hørt, at uglen i domkirkens klokketårn vidste besked om lidt af hvert, og mere til, så de blev enige om at aflægge ham et besøg og spørge ham grundigt ud om alle hvordan’erne, hvornår’erne og hvorfor’erne.

Nær torvets kastanjetræ havde domkirkens korsedderkop spundet et magisk net. Det var tilsyneladende hverken rammet ind eller hæftet nogen steder og kunne besvare selv nærgående spørgsmål, bare de ikke kom fra en spindoktor, for så klumpede maskerne sig sammen et stykke tid og mistede evnen til vibrerende refleksion. Man skulle dog spørge på en særlig måde for at få svar, og uglen var en af dem der vidste hvordan.

Klokketårnet indbød ikke til besøg. Det var vanskeligt at komme op i, og vindeltrapperne var smalle, slidte og knirkende. Men der var ingen vej udenom, for uglen forlod, selvom det lød lidt mystisk, aldrig sin pind.

”Tag en spadseretur på Kunstens Boulevard. Alle tænkelige kunstarter, og flere til, er tilgængelige lige Nu og Der,” sagde uglen. Han vidste nemlig allerede, hvad de havde på hjerterne.

”Der er ferniseringer og uropførelser ad libitum, og i det aktuelle tema: ”Hvem tænder regnbuen på himlens hvælv, og hvem slukker efter?” afspejles alle svarene på Jeres spørgsmåI. I genskinnet fra gadespejlene udenfor byens tid… og efter alle kunstens regler.”

STREET ART MIRROR

They talked about tomorrow and the day after. For tomorrow would probably be better than the day before yesterday, if one lived so long. Resided Muses really between heaven and earth, and if they did, how far out was that really?

They had heard that the owl in the cathedral’s bell tower knew about a little of everything, and more, so they agreed to pay him a visit and ask him about the how’s, the when’s and the why’s.

Near the square’s chestnut tree, had the cathedral cross spider spun a magical network. Apparently it was not framed or stapled and it was able to answer even impertinent questions, if they didn’t come from a spin doctor, which would make it lumpy stitches together a while so it lost the ability vibrating reflection. One should, furthermore, ask in a special way to get answers, and the owl was one of those who knew how.

The bell tower invited not to visits. It was difficult to get into, and its spiral staircase was narrow, worn and creaking. But there was no other way, the owl never left his stick, which sounded a bit mysterious.

“Stroll the Art Boulevard. Every imaginable arts, and many more, are available right now and there,” said the owl. He already knew what they had on their hearts.

“There are openings and premieres ad libitum, and the current theme, “Who turns rainbows on the vault of heaven, and who turns them off?” reflects all the answers to your questions. In the glare of street mirrors, outside the city time … and by the book.”