Life fits in a drawer. Not true, of course, but the Palladion does, and as long as that precious object is kept safe inside the walls of the city… A xoanon, a piece of ancient wood carved into a sort of idol, retroactively made to have fallen from the sky… Well, it did travel in the belly of a plane last week. Is it the object that does the trick or rather the drawer space turned into temple? Also, there seems to be no effect without the periodical or spontaneous ritual. And it is in that spirit that I cut the stems and arrange them, suspending all articulated judgement, letting the hands do the talking, even if the result turns out academically pedestrian. I’m satisfied and feel safe.
