They come from across the globe, from Asia, Africa, the Middle East. There are Greek myths, Arthurian legends, retellings of tales by Perrault, Anderson and the Grimm brothers. Each hour the tent walls yield a number of these stories in finely woven cloth, scene by scene, presented in succession, blurring so quickly across the tent walls that the characters in them, the monsters and angels, appear to move. The bend of tree limbs and the dance of leaves in the autumn wind, seems to come to life. It is with such intricacy, a seamstress from Munic remarks, that each cloth must have taken painstaking hours to make.
Patrons recall each tale, feel nostalgic and comfortable among the familiar bedtime stories and rhapsodies of their childhood. Yet the stories have new life, new energy. The prince's gold crown is soft, the magic fish in the river sleek like glass. Sleeping beauty's blood is warm and wet, cinderella smells of smoke and ash and roses. A dragon's fire burns and fills one's face with heat. Twelve daughters have aching feet, a poisoned apple is sweet. A blade is sharp, a monster's hide is rough as stone. A long gold braid is dry and heavy to lift. Skin and scales become light as seafoam. An arabian rince is left longing for the end of a lover's story. A young woman clings to her child, as valuable as golden thread. A pomegranate seed is tart and binding. A happy ending is bittersweet.
Art is 'Unicorn in Captivity'
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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