Helix II

Hanna Hur


It began a few months ago. At first, it appeared underneath me: a grid, spanning outward, far beyond my vision. It glowed and pulsed at each axis point, breathing. It’s alive, I thought. What was below the Grid? I tried to see but saw nothing. No surface, nor ground, nor color. We were there, hovering together in endless space. It was like this for weeks. Then one day, planet Earth appeared. I saw Earth’s whole body and some celestial space around it. A wonderful vantage point! Where then, am I, I wondered. And as if I were in a theater, watching a play, the Grid arrived again. I watched it cover the entire surface of Earth, convexing over all its contours. This vision was alarmingly both round and flat. Then, the Grid and Earth thrashed against one another, a brutal, twinning chain of curving and straightening. It looked violent but I couldn’t be sure it was. They engulfed one another and the curtain closed. My mouth twitched and my eyes blinked rapidly. Was it you that killed me, or did I kill you? I don’t remember anymore; here we are, together, like before.1  The curtain whipped open and I saw then a single form, an earthgrid, vibrating, humming.





Signal iii, watercolor and color pencil on canvas, 60 x 52 inches, 2019





1 Jorge Luis Borges, “Legend,” In Praise of Darkness, (New York, E.P. Dutton & Co., 1974)