White grass
Predrag Crnković
Scenography of bad endlessness

White is not a colour of optimism and happyness, as one often hasty thinks comparing it with black. If the black colour is death, then the white is a permanency, eternity. Eternity can be more frightful than death itself, only if man gives it some thought. We take fear of death for granted; we have been promissed eternity or we may probably have wished it; at least, we hope to it. We fear of black; we accept white as a rescue from the black and we do not ask for price.

Black is discontinuance og permanent departure, white is disappearance and endless wandering.

White flies, Aleyrodes , simbolyzes Hell; if we see them, then it means we can expect that some little devil is pooling our legs; if the flies move slowly „over [...] sugar-prole', it is quite certain that we are about to meet a guy with the tail. But such flies exist only in literature. The same case is with white grass – Leersia virginica – the one which grows in the light shadow of woods; it is not acutally white as we might think by its name. Logically, – so as the sight tour in microwave ovens store and brick oven factory won't help us understand Dante's Inferno.

In black we do not exsist; in white we went atstray.

Is the white grass on the white paper also invisible as black man in tunnel?

Black absorbes all the pain of our dying and compresses death into something which resembles a geometrical point; i.e. nonsense. How good that is! If death had any meaning (not „point” in a sense of „value”, something one could „trade” with in ideological enthusiasm) we could not bear it. We put death behind us so easily, just because of its incomprehensibleness. Black is a „deep, dreamless sleep”.

We feel white grass as a whiteness of hospital corridors, after we have just been communicated (or we saw it through empty words) incurable diagnosis. In that moment, all the suffer that is waiting for us, is the genuine feeling of eternity.

Physics informs us that the white is the basic color, which contains all colours; just the oposite to our childhood experimenting with temperas and watercolours – after we had mixed all the colours, we got something like black. And quantum physics even more resembles postmodern literature.

Walking on white grass is as much sinister as walking on water: it means we ar no longer in this world or – funny enough – that we are facing a dark future. Technically correct, we can be facing white future as well, that is – we, unsettled (souls), found ourselves in eternity; and „God help us there ”. Can he? Is it eternity that field which God is superior in? Writers used to (intuitively) left eternity to the guy with tail. God seemed to have enough problems as it is with our finite, bodily destines.

White grass bears no resemblance to yellow leafs. There is no change, shift, revival and cycle. Grass does not „become” white. One juts gets „there”, at once, by destiny's clicking as by camera's clicking, as all the white „in colour of a fallen angel” is on the film negative. Once we get there, we begin to wander... Photography or motion picture? There is no difference; physics confirms artists' intuitive experience: a moment of ecstasy annihilates learnt, adopted »intuitive« sense of time og stretches both in past and future; at the same time »bad motion pictures« alwazs reduces to one frame...

Whiteness is a boredom. Boredom is eternity. Eternity is Hell. Discontinuance is salvation. It's a pity the discontinuace is transcendental. That's why we have wine.