Sleep is the guardian of any narrative. The drowsiness of plot logic, unfolding the narrative style, an infinitely stretched veil of somnambulistic experiences, carries an unreal surface of an unreadable semantic cluster, remaining a mystery after reading or a constant mystifying background of the context, reviving the reality of the readable or unrealizing the context.
Mystery is the soul of the narrative. Without a codified tactic, no context is rehabilitated, without sleep there is no revival of reality.
The unknown, however, holds an infinite number of mysteries hidden beyond sleep. Stirring and shaking sleep, we try to penetrate the power of the mysterious, but we only encounter the reality surrounding any plot. Falling asleep, enjoying, we wake up again and again to admire what that world is wrapped in, a world kept, unknown (the world of the unseen chrysanthemum).
Reading, we enjoy only memories of what was heard, memories of that room where the mystery hums. The fatal sleep is eternal. It precedes a new stage of penetration into the unknown without return, the stage of fatal narrative or endless sleep, full of oblivion or death. The unknown awaits this, dissolving everything in its embrace within the infinite bounds of mystery, enveloping, enchanting everything in everything. The unknown is the path to mystery, whose unknown expanses are elusive. Using methods to comprehend the unknown, we try to find what we seek, forgetting the infinity of the processes of cognition, and understanding this, we are able to stop, penetrating the deepest depths of the unknowable, while comprehending – we know what by knowing – we produce into the unknown, i.e., we produce infinity, chasing meaning.
Mystery is itself unknowable. It is not a product of the mind or imagination – it is what always remains a mystery. It is a two-sided mirror, it is sleep, it is death, it is what is incomprehensible, it is the unknown and the unknowable.
No matter how much you search, it is always near, and no matter how much you awaken it, it is not there.
Only its touch remains to be felt.
The touch of mystery.Comment type: Published comment
Author: Dmytro Dulfan
Bibliography:
Dulfan D. The Touch of Mystery / D. Dulfan // Portfolio: Art of Odessa in the 1990s: Odessa. – Center for Contemporary Art “Tyrs”. – 1999. – P.56
Sources: Dulfan D. The Touch of Mystery / D. Dulfan // Portfolio: Art of Odessa in the 1990s: Odessa. – Center for Contemporary Art “Tyrs”. – 1999. – P.56
