'A Love Story' by Asger Schnack
Hvad så? Det er en kærlighed, der forgrener sig, det ligner et luftfoto, men er noget i blodet. En ung mand, der knap kunne se sig tilbage. En dreng, der kom farende og blev bragt i fart. Vi er i begyndelsen af en historie, og alle mennesker er forskellige. Ikke mindst her i New York, hvor alle mennesker også har lov til at være det. Det lys, der ses i gaden, kommer delvis fra forbiglidende taxier; delvis fra forbigående mennesker, der giver tilbage til asfalten, hvad de tog fra den: vægtløsheden. Delvis fra den erindring, der først langt senere reflekterer sin popkunst ned på dette hellige sted.
Glem aldrig taknemmeligheden! Den nu lidt ældre mand med pensler som trommestikker, med spraydåser, med følsomhed, med nattens mørke i øjnene og lange gadeture i støvler i morgentimen. Dén unge mand. Han glemmer aldrig, hvad han så. I varme sommeraftener huskede han børnene, der spillede basketball bag et højt hegn. Det var så nøgtern en drøm, at den kom og gik i gummisko. Han var med i den som sin egen stjerne, sin egen teenager. Nu kan han se sig tilbage, inde i den film. Og det store mysterium: Han kan træde ind og ud af filmen, han kan skabe og genskabe sig selv.
Det, han ser, er det, han elsker! Det er svært at koncentrere sig, for der er en gade inden i alle gaderne, et fortov inden i alle fortovene, den gade og det fortov, han ser rulle forbi med de tusind bevægelsers øjne, som var byen tatoveret på hans krop – og ind i de dér dyb, der ikke er kroppen, men som kroppen bærer med sig. Skakter af glæde og sorg, ensomhed og et sted at gå hen: hen om hjørnet. Alle ting i dette rum er elskovsartefakter: ting for tingenes skyld. Der er naturligvis farverne, tingenes farver, men der er også deres bevægelighed. Nu krummer kroppen sig sammen i gråd.
Tilbage i København det store savn: tænkeboksen, udsigten til færger, stålkonstruktioner, nedrevne huse, løsagtig beplantning. Men himlen mere blå end, end hvad? End længslen selv. At arbejde sig yngre, det er muligvis en mulighed. At kile sig ind et sted imellem mure. Og derindefra vende tilbage. Højt til vejrs. Kan man være forelsket i en sky? Sagtens, hvis bare den er på vej til New York! Drømmen var fortid, eller drømmen er fremtid, men det forhindrer den ikke i at være NU! Den beder ikke om andet end at blive til. Landingsbanen kalder. Om lidt er han derovre, den stadig lige unge mand.
Gaden er tilbage, hopper forbi. Den er tilbage med sit faste inventar, de billeder, der nu er hans. Med sikre skridt går han forbi spejlbilleder og vinduesdekorationer: De kan sælge, hvad fanden de vil, og servere gaden som en turistfælde. Han er ligeglad, for i hans hjerne summer byen på et højere niveau, hvor alle tegn ankommer samtidig. Han ved knap nok selv, hvor lykkelig han er. Han hænger ud med minuttet, stoler på sig selv, lader tiden fare. Det er den første dag, den næste står på spring. Livet er nu dette transportable voksenliv, hvor alle mennesker er alle mennesker, en glæde så stor som noget.
'A Love Story' af Asger Schnack
And so what? It is a love split into branches, it looks like an air photo, but is something in the blood. A young man who could barely look back. A boy who came rushing and gained speed. We are at the beginning of a story, and all people are different. Not least here in New York, where all people have the right to be so. The light seen in the street comes partly from taxis sliding by; partly from transient people who give back to the asphalt, what they took from it: weightlessness. Partly from the memory, that not until much later reflects its pop art down to this sacred place.
Never forget the gratitude! The now slightly older man with paint brushes as drumsticks, with spray cans, with sensitivity, with the darkness of night in his eyes and long walks in boots in the early hour. That young man. He will never forget what he saw. In warm summer nights he remembered the kids who played basketball behind a high fence. It was a dream, so down-to-earth, that it came and went in sneakers. He was in it as his own star, his own teenager. Now he can look back - in that film. And the great mystery: He can step in and out of the film, he can create and recreate himself.
What he sees is what he loves! It's hard to focus, because there is a street inside all the streets, a sidewalk inside all the sidewalks. That street and that sidewalk, he sees scroll by with the eyes of the thousand movements, as if the city was tattooed on his body - and in those deep, which are not the body, but carried by the body. Shafts of joy and sorrow, loneliness and a place to go: just around the corner. All objects in this room are love-making artifacts: Things for the sake of things. There are, of course, the colors, the colors of the things, but there is also their movement. Now the body double up in tears.
Back in Copenhagen the great absence: The isolation booth, the view of ferries, steel constructions, demolished houses, promiscuous planting. But the sky more blue than, than what? Than the yearning itself. To work oneself younger, that may be an option. To wedge oneself in somewhere between walls. And return. Flying High. Can you be in love with a cloud? Sure - as long as it is heading towards New York! The dream was the past, or the dream is the future, but that doesn't prevent it from being NOW! It doesn't ask for more than to be created. The Runway calls. In a little while he is over there, the man who is still as young.
The street is back, skipping by. It is back with its fixtures, the images that are his now. With steady steps he walks past reflections and window decorations: They can sell what the hell they want, and present the street like a tourist trap. He doesn't care cause in his brain the City is humming at a higher level, where all the signs arrive at the same time. He hardly knows how happy he is. He hangs out with the minute, trust himself, let time go by. It's the first day, the next is ready to take the plunge. Life is now this portable adulthood, where all people are all people, a joy as great as anything.