There is energy and stasis. Bursts of light and movement. The capture of this in images renders the show plaintive, especially in the cold light of a winter's day. At the opening there were crowds milling around, with sci-fi techno music and lovely red wine. Now there are no people, just the hum of the air conditioning.
The sound of the Millennium Falcon was a malfunctioning air-con unit.
This show is elegiac, a nostalgic tribute to a lost future. Growing up with the Hubble space telescope. Star Trek. Ender's Game.
A time when we could dream of interstellar empires.
All of that is gone now, and Orson Scott Card is a homophobe. The pieces are strangely soothing, in their evocation of the cold, quiet expanses of space; and unsettling, unearthly beauty.
I sat for hours, watching, listening to the almost-subaudiable hum, finding shapes and losing them amongst the bursts of colour.
I wanted to say more, but alas, am swamped. Ed's good. That's all that needs to be said in the end.
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