the matter of time

reflections at the guggenheim

The Matter of Time by Richard Serra is a series of large steel arches balanced on their side, creating unique labyrinths for visitors at the Guggenheim in Bilbao to meander through. The structures fill up a room about the size of a football field, their dark brown presence blocking your view to the end. 

the matter of time, by richard serra

I am standing among them, my headphones in, listening to Serra explaining their creation. 

I feel very little among the large arches, and very alone among the massive groups of, surprisingly, Danish retirees. I don’t mind being alone, but I do appreciate Serra’s peripheral company as I make my way around.

His voice is calming, and he sounds like a curious guy. I am thinking so much about writing this piece, that I don’t take in too much information, except that none of these ten tonnes sculptures are secured to the floor. I am surprised, in awe actually, that they simply stand, with all their weight, all their might, so grounded. 

I follow the bends of the different sculptures, trying to avoid the groups. Twisting and turning, the brown steel somehow becoming fluid as I move. As I circle within the shapes, I find myself reflecting on the past year.

Everything is different.

So many new experiences I didn’t expect to have. Some of them with friends I have known for a long time, some of them only made possible due to new connections, but also so many entirely alone. The ladies in coat-check giggled at my two large backpacks when I walked in. They let me check in both of them, and were so kind to me. An unfaltering sort of kindness I have found to be even more impenetrable when I am on my own. I am so grateful for all the kindness which I have received in the past year.

I used to make my way around to new places with someone else. For a long time it felt strange to not experience new places with someone no. Even stranger to go places alone, and not have someone specific to tell about the experience as it is happening, or afterwards. To exist within only myself feels at once so stupidly simple (How can I commit a whole post to this feeling? We live alone, we die alone, we are alone.) and yet, so radical (Life is about love and connection.) 

As I walk alone, I pause Serra’s voice but keep my headphones in. I don’t want anyone to talk to me, I want to ponder. That’s another funny thing about going places alone more. People always assume you want to chat, and most of the time I do, but right now I want to be swallowed by the steel. 

I have just returned from a 4 day trip with an old friend, and two new acquaintances who are both lovely. They left our hostel early this morning, going back to Barcelona. I purposefully planned to stay an extra couple of hours to see the Guggenheim, before flying back to Munich. I wanted to visit the museum, I have a soft spot for art exhibitions, but it also felt like an ode to all of the progress I have made since last June. I felt like I needed to do this, even if this is just going to a severely touristy spot. I am not actually nervous about being here, I have done bigger, longer trips alone. But this week has been full of reflection, and all my emotions are sitting just beneath the surface of my skin. I feel vulnerable, as if these feelings might suddenly burst out of me, cleansing me.

This past year has been a long list of proving to myself that I can do all that I want to do alone and I can do it scared. Therefore, here I am.

I continue to walk within a section of the sculpture, realising soon that it is a spiral. I am following its curves around and around and around and around. It is almost dizzying. The distance between the pieces varies a lot. Sometimes, there's so much space I barely feel like I am in the structure, other times I feel like I am slowly but steadily being squeezed.

I am alone between two pieces, and so I let my hands trace the steel. It is rough and cold against my hand. I worry, sillily, that if I lean my hand there too long I’ll push it over. Since the sculptures are so large, it is difficult to grasp what they look like until you’re out of them.

This walk is a sensory experience in more than one way. It makes me feel like I am being taken on a journey through the past year. Back through all the hurt, and all the joy. The tightest places feel like I did when the world felt the most like it was going to crash around me. The brown steel blocking out the light, the sharp twists making it unclear what's coming up ahead. The only thing that's certain is that I must keep moving because if I stop, I think the steel might close around me, and suffocate me. 

I felt like this, like I might just suffocate, for a large portion of last year, without realizing it. A tight feeling in my chest that I didn’t quite know how to release. I am quite sure that if I had pulled myself together to go see the shrink my mother offered to pay for when she realized I was crashing and burning, she would have called it anxiety. I chose to ignore it, to fill my days with so many things that I couldn’t tell that I was losing myself. Disintegrating.  

I keep going amidst the artwork. I feel so small. As the sculpture narrows, the amount of light which reaches me is limited. Everything feels dark. It makes me feel little, and powerless, and claustrophobic. It gets dark in those sections, looking up is the only way to remember you’re in a museum and not a cave. I keep walking, the steel narrowing.

I cough, realising the sound bounces along the walls around me. I try humming and am delighted to find the way my voice echoes makes the darkness feel less enclosing. Continuing on feels scary, but so does turning around. No matter where I go I will feel these feelings, so I might as well trod on, now surrounded by a familiar, and almost happy, tune.  

There’s no escaping the movement of it all, and stopping in the middle somehow feels inappropriate, unnatural, as if it will stop the world spinning altogether. The swirling continues, my steps fasten, the section narrows, and then, it opens. I have reached the middle. It feels like coming up for air after a deep dive. Museum lights flood over me. I feel like I can breathe. 

This is no unfamiliar feeling.

After everything had happened, I woke up one morning and I could breathe again. I didn’t realize how deep under water I had been, until one day I could swim again. I didn’t realize how horrible I had been feeling, until I didn't. The loss I experienced last year felt tangible, like something I could fix, but also something I could release.  

Amidst all the loss, and all the love, atleast there was that; an epiphany of light and air and a return to myself.

I know I will feel all that love, and more, again. I know I will feel immense grief many more times. I know the feelings of anxiousness sit deep within me, but I know that I can keep them at bay. I have been learning from what has happened, and I can look backwards and forwards at the same time, with fear, with joy, and most of all with wonder.

I know to follow the steel structures path for me. I know to look up towards the light, to keep moving forwards. I know to hum along the way. 

with love, cecilia.