Back to Issue

This is ‘27 Tweets About Amber’.

‘Amber’ is an artist book published by Nina Canell and Robin Watkins (Rhombus Press, 2020). The book is a visual anthology that has absolutely no text; it is an archive of images, mostly advertisements, of the contradictory representation of the female body in the electrical age. Read more about the book here: https://www.printedmatter.org/catalog/56759/

When we received a copy at the bookstore where I work, I could not stop the compulsion to write text for the images. I wrote about 27 different images, using the Twitter limitation of 280 characters.

One.

She is holding up the light of heaven in pale garment, breasts exposed on the tracks, light is white, hair is gold harness nods of bio-technology. Earth is electric, woman is electricity in a bottle as she conduits her body, suntanned from rays, all earthly movements a loft.

Two.

A palindrome performing a dance in the courtyard, the dance of the seven veils, to mark the ending of the Y chromosome, which is a palindrome, (which will die out in a few hundred years.) Woman is a palindrome of electricity. A manicure of ideas contained for a short time.

Three.

The tulip, fallopian, covers the nodes with its hood, dolloping lightly in suspension, little legs, fuzzy, a shaded bonnet cap. The mood is also the study of the early psychology of a state intimate with primeval natural science. Desire generated by a pattern of behavior.

Four.

She has arrived in full-color, bejeweled with a tax ID number and driving license, wet hair look from a bottle, an alignment at a time near its first stirrings. Baby blue matching set to carry the glance backwards at us, an expressive palindrome to get us out of a certain mess.

Five.

Salome is in the middle of her set, catching a breath by bending backward, rolling onto the pedestal, the veils are globes of light descending without gravity, muscles engaged. Alice wearing her sexiest gown at the other end of town, talking to the Victorian mirror.

Six.

The conduit is in the shape of a ring, a pinky ring, a married ring finger. Forget about emancipation in the Imperium Romanum. Dream materials light up the vanity mirror in the dressing room behind the stage. Designing light, far more remote than a magic square.

Seven.

The intern sat at her desk looking for stock images of ‘embracing ideas’ like a wave gone over her head. The google image stock revealed a woman levitating a light bulb aglow without being attached to a socket, her red angle-length shirt marking the cryptogram.

Eight.

The embryonic hymn of human ideas is carried forth by Helios on a laurel leaf, crescent moon and shards of lightning spinning the wheel of time, the wheel of industry, the telling of three or more recurrent periods of time, an early harnessed power of elaboration.

Nine.

Unbuttoning every businesswoman reveals the source power, or, as a means of marshalling the powers already deployed in nature. Also found via google image search at a time near the first stirrings recognized by the mystic, only later rarefied as instrumental artefact.

Ten.

Like the daughter of Herodias, she danced with arms floating in the air, a striptease of light, tossing in an old world vice, gathering the light for the great descent featured at the World’s fair and invented by Oscar Wilde. The veil is a lightbeam, revealing a jeweled body, wink wink.

Eleven.

Look at my skin glow, look at my skin cry. It’s almost as if I don’t have any insides. Now I’ve donned another uniform in the next century. I got an MA in women’s studies. I modeled for this ad to pay for college. I’ve got the power, symbolically, since this should ruin my eyes.

Twelve.

A lullaby singing from the iPhone arriving here from all the way back there. Even the little angels are tuned in. Now all heavenly channels can be harnessed by the breast and long curling locks and pale skin from Greek Antiquity. Listen up, cherubs, to an oriental dance number.

Thirteen.

We’ve returned to the parlor scene, the land of no return where, in commemoration, we cannot suffer the labyrinthine filters of translation, even after the way you said good night and turned off the lights has worn away and is beyond recall. The palindrome is everlasting.

Fourteen.

If you read me horizontally, an optical fiber transmits 76,800 messages at the speed of light. Despite the glare of lanterns, you have not recognized my message among the many limbs removed and boiled for a long time, crystallized bowls fruits and blood on the tongue.

Fifteen.

Your eyes shine. I do not know continents from milky aorta, iliac bones from the mons pubis, lilac from the ribs. In the fingertip pressed against Claude glass, the world is picturesque and a glow, operator nymph with thousands of grains of ruby sand.

Sixteen.

The sun is already high above the plateau. You are spread out like your palms turns toward the sun. Hands like stars. Hair like circuits arteries gradually catching fire. Extending in multiples, like the intended use of the recurrent verse as a magical passage.

Seventeen.

We are lying on a cloth of sand while the Atlantic noon stains the world in light. The heat becomes explosive. It was much the same five years ago, twenty years ago, a century passed. Bobbing about in the mists of Venus, suddenly sinking like a sweet fat grape. Venus is green.

Eighteen.

Oiling up the atom blast, we fell through time like a forgotten pitted stone. We let all the creatures loose to live on Venus now that we could see her true colors; someone found the light switch flapping with damp wings on a patch of grass. I have found warm caves in the woods.

Nineteen.

I swim far out to sea bearing thousands of seaweeds, enveloping me in a black mass. When I emerge from the water, your white body is spread on the surface of the water, your sea murmurs lightning belling around skin. Light seeks the canals of traces of former orifices.

Twenty.

The letters of Mina Harker unravel from her hands, pearls of letters onto the dusk laying low over Marseilles in the Belle Epoque. What wouldn’t Dodie Bellamy say to speak again, to speak again like rain. The phone rings after midnight with a manuscript instead of a kiss.

Twenty One.

Is that you Virginia, Martha, Valentine, Sue? I know the new electric corset is making you feel like a battery operated lollipop (or is it all in your head?). When it rains, you come inside with a damp parasol and turn the switch on the flowers before fainting.

Twenty Two.

Flame above and electric below, inverting heaven like a palindrome that can be pared down to the center of the earth, which is found through the gaping mouth of the creature which holds up the light fixture: gargoyle crotch of a sprouting demon; gossip of mercury top left.

Twenty Two.

Tarnished for my beauty, a golden arc of how this has been sourced through me, because of me, upheld for my connection to source, but soon the tables will turn much like before, and this will hush me into sympathetic nervous symptoms in which I should lie very still.

Twenty Three.

As though we did not arrive from the island of Sappho with our heads and tails of violets sticking out of the sky and smells of wet grass and leaf-humus and long shudders of lips sliding over cheeks and the haunches of iliac, of lilac bones. Running in leaps and bounds.

Twenty Four.

In another figure, the leaps and bounds retreat into gesticulation and the tremors and convulsions retreat onto the floor in a fetal position with the hammerings of fists in excess of adoration and in excess of transformations in a viscera in succession from the grave.

Twenty Five.

Cell by cell, I spill like a fountain. Hello, is that you great Aunt? The water falls gently, where moisture is not welcome. The medium of storm lightnings dials the number slowly and waits. When you place your fingertips against my closed eyes I seem them frenzied.

Twenty Six.

You run under no current. The ridges of the temples and the shoulder blades of the spine enlarge beneath fingers covered with the globules of enlarged cells thousands of time transgressing the enormous quantities of shining leaping all around the globe.

Twenty Seven.

One can hear the sea, hysterical in her every-day life. Is it any surprise that the history of metaphysics is the history of sound, light, and the voice? Good shampoo, Saussure, and a primitive sign language to talk with in the coffee break room.

End