Nestled between hills in the eastern Sahara desert bordering the Red Sea in El Gouna, Egypt is an awesome piece of land art entitled Desert Breath. Between 1995 and 1997 this site-specific installation was created by the D.A.ST. Arteam, comprised of installation artist Danae Stratou, industrial designer and architect Alexandra Stratou, and architect Stella Constantindies.
8,000 square meters of sand were displaced to create large positive and negative conical volumes which form two interlocking spirals that expand from a water-filled center across an area of 100,000 square meters.
17 years since it was created, Desert Breath still exists, “becoming through its slow disintegration, an instrument to measure the passage of time.”
Click here to view more photos of and information about this beautiful project.
[via My Modern Metropolis]
A cartoon by Harry Bliss. For more cartoons from this week’s issue: http://nyr.kr/1pAm6nz
A cartoon by Farley Katz, from this week’s issue. For more, visit www.newyorker.com/humor.
We will be close on Friday 18 July.
We will be so close on Friday 18 July. For one night only I will hold your face in my hands and I will kiss you quickly and then slowly and then quickly and we will feel this incredible connection and we will tell each other everything.
On Friday 18 July, we will feed each other berries, and we will sing-mumble-slur old half-remembered camp songs, and we will laugh about how there was a time, not even that long ago, when we hadn’t even met, and what were we doing not meeting, who were we fooling, whose time were we wasting?
Sitting on my bed, recalling the origin of your knee’s crescent moon scar, you’ll gesticulate wildly and I’ll watch the cigarette sparks like evaporating fireflies, dizzy for a home in your discarded black blouse.
"I want to know you completely," I’ll whisper into every crevice of your body. We’ll make up constellations out of the freckles on our thighs, rich mythologies of ancient long-dead civilizations.
"Did you know I can juggle?" you’ll say, and I’ll say, "Show me."
Every other night will have been rehearsal for Friday 18 July — we had to be ready. Everything was pushing us imperceptibly toward this moment — if I hadn’t missed that train, if you hadn’t moved for the job, just imagine.
"I don’t want it to be tomorrow," you’ll say, a single tear escaping as you bitterly laugh at the futility of the sentiment. "I want it to be Friday 18 July forever."
And when the morning comes, our love, like bugs, will scatter in the light. We will dress ourselves while facing the wall, we will scramble for our phones, we will be strangers.
And we will realize that Friday 18 July, like every day in history before it, was a moment, a twenty-four-hour trick of the light, a thing that happened once and never again.
And that sad truth will just about swallow us whole.
Sorry for any inconvinience.