Lars Frost

Look, a picture.

Look, a second picture.

And one more. Completely different. A completely different picture. Just a very small shift in itself. But completely different.

Look, there’s another picture. The balance shifts. The hand that was in the pocket is now pointing at something. A whole new situation. An essentially different dynamism.

Who did this? she asks.

And Erik points at Michael, who is the eldest.

What is going on here? There, between them, where their hands almost touch? This is what happens: their hands almost touch.

We stop the film and draw one single picture out of the flow of pictures. He speaks to me. Are you talking to me? Well, are you pointing at me?

Time stretches out in front of the picture. And behind it. And here we are then, somewhere in stretched-out time. Here where we can explore this one picture.

We choose a picture from the flow of pictures and now this suddenly is supposed to mean something? In itself? So something is collecting in this one picture? So this choice collects something in this one picture? So, suddenly there is something new in this picture?

Here is an occurrence without movement.

We choose a picture, because that is simply how we remember. It is not a metaphor. Here is silence. A curtain. A cigarette. A woman. The backseat of a car. A man. A gun. The woman smokes the cigarette. The man points at something with the gun.

All of my childhood is right here, in this one picture. Me on the backseat of the car, my chin resting on the top of the seat, the smell of leather and in front of me, behind the car, the motorway stretching all the way home, stretching on through a dazzling summer. That's what I tell myself, but of course it's not true. Summer and cars behind us, out there beyond the window? Him there, on the backseat?

We stop the film. Ah, but who is it now in the picture? Is it the actor or the character?

We stop the film. It is not a concentrate, a mixture; I wouldn't put it like that. It's almost not a choice. It gives itself more or less.

And is there really only one picture remaining from that entire reel? Is that what the boy is looking for? That one picture of himself?

There is a toilet with the seat up. There is shirt buttoned crookedly. There is a face that believes it is outside the picture.

There is a movement transformed to occurrence.

Nothing is excluded from this picture.

Yesterday a man in an excavator began to dig a hole in the backyard beneath my kitchen window. I couldn't imagine what the point was. Not until I read a small notice, an old notice, on the notice board in the stairway: Rubbish suction disposal! It just goes to show.