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I It was to be installed
in an indoor courtyard of the Library of Maps. The walls of the
courtyard were made out of mirrors, the floor out of earth,
and the roof was a huge sheet of glass through which one could see the
changing sky. Here the Thread
Collectors sat on duty, one at a time, waiting in their comfortable
blue wooden chairs with pale brown wicker baskets beside them. The courtyard was
open day and night, as there always had to be someone there to collect
the threads. There were simple
rules. The threads could
be of any color, any thickness, any length, and of any material, and
two or more people must choose them together. No one could contribute more than once. II For several months,
the Thread Collectors waited patiently. Late one morning,
a mother, carrying her child who was celebrating her first birthday
that day, offered them a yellow ball of thin thread. And in the mid-afternoon,
two sailors appeared—they had almost drowned at sea the day before—dragging
a heavy green thread made of masses of dried seaweed. Threads of light,
sound, and memory, as well as threads of cherry and date stones, crumbs
of bread, and threads of wool, silk, and plastic were brought by the
increasingly large crowds who waited in line to make their contributions.
Finally, the Thread
Collectors called upon the Weavers to begin their work. The Weavers sat
in the indoor courtyard for days, deliberating. They realized that
no ordinary process or aesthetic rules would work with such ungainly
and unpredictable threads. And so, instead,
they decided to make a ladder, and each thread would be woven into a
new rung for it. Some rungs would
disintegrate, and others would be sturdy. Some would be small
and some large. Some would be visible
and some invisible. Some could only
be smelled, Some only heard,
and some only remembered. Over the years,
when a moment or a marriage was over, or a birth or a death occurred,
there would often be demands that a thread be returned, or one substituted
for another. But that was not allowed once the rung had been woven. III One day, however,
the Library’s new administration called a halt to the project because
there was no more space in the courtyard. The Unruly Map of
Threads was cut up to cover—densely, layer upon layer—the
indoor courtyard’s walls, floor, and ceiling. The space became
like a giant padded cell in an asylum. Here, scholars came
each day to attempt to understand the order and meaning of the Unruly
Map. But, after years
of fruitless endeavors to decipher it, the Library staff was forced
to turn to poets and artists for advice. “What shall
we do?” “Continue the
Unruly Map of Threads,” was the answer, “and make a hole in
the roof, so that the ladder can be extended upward into the sky as
threads are gathered for the new rungs.” The roof was opened up, and the ladder reassembled, although no one knew any longer the order of the rungs. IV But no one came.
Instead, each time it rained, water seeped into the indoor courtyard through the hole in the roof. Slowly the ladder fell bit by bit to the floor, and the rungs disintegrated. V Visitors—and
there are many—who come to the Courtyard of the Map of Unruly Threads No longer is the courtyard surrounded by mirror walls. In the now-transparent walls, shadowy figures converse animatedly with one another. The visitors cannot hear these conversations, however, as the figures speak —(deliberately?)—too softly. by Moira Roth |
