The foreground is black, and you get the impression that it is rotten, that something is not right, out of place. The horizon is littered with various objects: the smoking hull of a Russian tank, conjugal waste land, broken glass, the corpse of a Cyclops, androgynous language, banana peel, the ghost of a moral, a bathing cap, toys, body parts. And you ask yourself if the landscape contains enough corpses to be believable.
A word of caution: Do not to paint yourself into the scene carefully placing your body in between the village idiot, and the grave-digger.
Sometimes it is someone else’s hand that does the work, sometimes the hand itself makes an entrance. This is called collage. This is called other things. The thing you want to call it is yet to be discovered.
However, one does get the impression that it is slowly collapsing, getting smaller, the inevitable night closing in. But can you trust it? It is littered with objects that may not be litter at all, but rather part of the landscape itself. There is the worry that if you reached out and removed one, that the entire scene would collapse. There is a house in the centre right. It is haunted. All the ghosts are drunk. They are having a conversation that is unchanged by the facts of their death, the fact that they are dead. This is how it usually goes.
There was something here about landscape, how it opened up, you could walk through it, and yet not be in it. One chooses to take the long view; to be at that point were everything converges. Others still, say it to prevent it from happening. These are the ones you have to watch out For. They scour the landscape for a few scraps of the ether which they take into themselves, they have a mantra tho know one has ever heard it. At a certain time of day something regular happens, someone Gets up, makes coffee and some oatmeal, and sits down to stare out at creation.