A recent gift from Tokyo’s Alma accumulates its tender pieces (light feathers and glass charms, ribbons and wires, all formed into resting wings) slowly, as if to unfurl them in a gust of necessarily sudden flight. She’s titled this with an image of floating but I can’t help but hear soaring: sprinting off of cliffs into pink sunsets that blow their kisses over velvet oceans. Anticipatory suspension.
Mid-way we hear that dash: she picks everything up to glide with it. Echoing caws as if from other winged creatures swirl around her pulsing skein of self. Angels. Unicorns. Albatrosses. Beastly butterflies and monolithic moths. Clouds that transmogrify into animated beings as ethereal as they are eventual. The descent is as soft as a falling eyelid. Gently, I might say I am in love with each of those girls while sure of being in love, always, with her alone.