had a workshop in Valby, I knew, and one day I sniffed my way there. It was late on one of the afternoons that Valby’s galleries hold their openings. I found the address on a side road with pitted asphalt, and a bell next to the gate. After a while Vita emerged from a flat building. She was wearing a shirt and overalls.
“Did you get lost?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Which opening are you looking for?”
“I don’t actually know,” I said and giggled.
The little hall was tidy. Light streamed through a series of small windows set high up. There was a compressor in the middle of the floor, and some tarpaulin covered sculptures farther back.
“Now that you’re here, you might as well see them,” Vita said and began removing the tarpaulin from one: a white cylinder like a medium-sized wading pool, about a meter or so high. The cylinder’s circular surface was bowled, and to one side of the depression was a sphere: an over-dimensional pea paused on its rolling trajectory to the plate’s bottom.
“I’ve never seen that one before,” I said.
“Well, it’s only been shown once.”
“Now I see it.”
I circled the sculpture.
“It’s quivering,” I said.
“That’s because the depression is cut asymmetrically, so it appears to be sliding. Let me show you the other,” she said and withdrew the tarpaulin from the other sculpture, this one light yellow.
The bowl on this cylinder’s surface was bubbled, the surface tension of a water droplet right before it bursts.
“I see a boob,” I said.
“I think I’m about to finalize an agreement to place both,” she said.
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