YELLOW – Adam Christensen (DK/UK)

Young lads dressed in white were flitting around the large dining hall. Tiled pillars rose towards an adorned ceiling. White. Creamy green. Translucent metallic fabric draped across the large windows. Through them the wet streets were given a golden glow. I was dining alone. My wet jacket hung over the empty chair in front of me. My wet hair pinned to the side. I had lamb cooked in white wine. Homemade noodles. Local wine. Petr served me a cup of coffee followed by the bill. I emptied my wallet. I jumped on the tram to avoid the drizzle. Valdštejnská Jízdárna. Museum night. Free entry. Art Brut. Adolf Wölfli plunged me into an intricate labyrinth. A downward spiral of emotions. Pairs of large blue eyes guided me into a blend of warm colours. Aloïse Corbaz’s scorched women leaned on each other. They stared at me. Roughly made miniscule clay sculptures trapped in a display cabinet. Wood carvings. The wood made Jan Křížek crazy. The French landscape. His bees. His wife. Persistent components in a worried mind. She had fallen in love with a man whose love for art came first. She cooked a meal for the documentary film-maker. Fresh fish. Potatoes. Salad. She told him about tears of illusion. When an illusion was broken she would let go of it in a tear. Jan Křížek never cried. I left the grand halls. Outside it had stopped raining. I climbed the rocks. A spiral path ascending to a giant metronome dead in motion. The skater boys were hanging out on a ledge with a view. Their skateboards had been usurped by bottles of beer. I strolled off to a more secluded area of the park. A giant hare ran through the trees. A hedgehog shuffled across the path. It froze. I stroked its spines. Fleas jumped out. A small skinny man approached me. Dark hair. Thick beard. Yellow shirt. Yellow trousers. Green shoes. A pianist. His mouth dry from too much speed and cocksucking. He had emerged from the dungeons of Drakes twenty hours after entering. We found a cherry plum tree. Little juicy yellow balls. We walked off the hill. Across a bridge. Past a closed Jewish cemetery. I heard Kafka grumble from his grave. I didn’t catch the end of his lengthy sentence. The man in yellow had lost the key to his flat. I took him back to Kalin Studios. The little room with no windows. I let down my hair. He ran his fingers though the long curls. We lay naked on the bed until the sun crept through the wooden floorboards in the ceiling. The little man slipped back into yellow with green. He swallowed a blue pill with a sip of coffee. On his exit I played Per Nørgård’s Symphony No. 4.

I walked down the stairs into techno beats and total darkness. I entered a low corridor. Bare brick still moist from the flood two months earlier. Red lights blended with the darkness. Through a low arch I entered a room. No exit. A pale wrinkled face appeared in the entrance behind me. A hand fondling a purple pink bank note. I crept past. I walked down another set of stairs. Barred cages on either side. A topless man lay on a bench smoking a cigarette. I rolled one myself. Through the metal bars he lit it for me. Strong tobacco. I felt dizzy. I entered a labyrinth of cubicles. Flickering monitors. Piles of bare flesh. A door slightly ajar. I slipped inside. I sat down. A fat cock appeared through a hole in the wall. Tight foreskin. I couldn’t pull it back. I tried. I saw him flicking through crude scenes on the monitor above. A tear of cum ran down my cheek into my mouth.