It's actually quite incredible what one can accomplish in a single lifetime.

                    

A peach pit, a twig with glitter glue, a broken Torx 20-bit, and an inflatable flint axe.                        

A four-year-old boy in nothing but a bare bottom and green Crocs is fiddling around in the driveway, which could probably use some weeding, in front of the yellow-brick suburban house. He has carefully arranged his treasures in a straight line in front of the front door.

                       

A fly takes off from the sticky peach pit and, with 20,000 wingbeats per minute, flies through the open front door into the small office where the boy’s father is sweating over his VAT returns. The fly buzzes around for a while, greatly irritating the father. It shits a tiny fly speck on the computer screen before barely escaping death. After a brief rest on a spider plant filtering the air in the entryway, the fly moves on into the living room—past the grandfather clock, where a dry cleaner’s hanger with a latex corset hangs. It bumps into the glass of the tired sliding door leading out to the garden. Its buzzing becomes confused for a moment. It flies into the glass a few more times before pulling back a little, gathering speed, and flying into the window again. The hard impact against the glass disorients it, and it has to take some time to recover. One final time, it gathers its strength, and now, with full force, it finally manages to penetrate the hard surface of the glass.

                       

The glass is as syrupy as time itself, and here the fly floats, swirling in almost infinitely slow ripples. From here, the lawn on the other side appears distorted, and the vertical plane has tipped into a horizontal, emerald-green ocean, as if the sliding door were mounted on loose hinges. It’s soundless here, and no effort is needed to be present. It's an incredibly comfortable place to be – if only one could feel this way forever. A Spider-Man ball slams against the window, sending shockwaves through the glass sea. Stunned, the fly opens its eyes and sees a black dot that grows larger and larger. Darkness quickly approaches, and soon the fly is completely enveloped in it.

                       

In the pitch-black night, a genderless voice, impossible to place, proclaims: “Welcome to the bell. I am your body now. I am your eyes, and I am your cocktail ears.”

                       

*** A gray, cold rain drums on the polished brass bell.

                       

The fly’s new brass body is 17.5 cm in diameter and weighs 2,465 grams. Its new matchstick legs and arms look, in a way, quite like its old fly legs, but at the same time, not at all. Its ears are disproportionately large, like those of very old men who have heard too much. Shivering, the fly-in- the-bell opens its new, beige-pale eyes, which feel as if they’re filled with gravel.

                       

The bell sits on a bench, gazing at a small cobblestone square. In the middle of the square, surrounded by red-and-white cordon tape, Elyn Zimmerman’s Untitled from 1974 is undergoing major renovations. On the corner behind the bench is a small, worn-out grocery store, advertising deals that are too expensive to truly be considered deals. Nonetheless, there is a line stretching from one side of the store, forming a steady stream of people emerging with cardboard boxes of varying sizes. The many people pass the dazed bell. Some give it a quick, measuring glance, but most pay no attention. The fly feels an instinctive urge to leave a tiny fly shit on all the boxes, but the clumsy and heavy brass bell holds it back. The fly-in-the-bell forces itself to rise on its new, small matchstick legs, turning the corner at the grocery store. It looks down the street, where at the end there is a small park. On both sides of the road are small, anonymous row houses. The bell crawls along the sidewalk, past one unit after another, all with their curtains drawn.

                       

Further down the street lies a formation of clothes and objects, exactly as if someone had laid down and instantly evaporated. First, a pair of pointed, red patent leather shoes with socks in them.

                    

                        

Then, a suit with a TV test pattern print, a matching jacket and tie, a white shirt and a purple fedora, along with a broken cane and a cup with the UN logo. Under the hat, periodontal blood spots mix with the rain. It smells nice, thinks the fly-in-the-bell, which slips in the mess and smashes into a lamppost, sending its sound ringing down the street. Startled, the bell, which dislikes such attention, falls over on its small, thin legs, and like an echo, its matchstick arms and legs flail desperately to get back up. It struggles, but its limbs aren’t strong enough, and helplessly, the bell with the fly inside lies there, staring up at the sky.

                       

A single bell minute feels like an entire fly lifetime. It closes its eyes and concentrates as hard as it can on becoming invisible—the harder it tries, the less it works, and the louder the 1,000 voices of traffic noise grow, all shouting its name.

                       

Through the noise, a woman’s voice penetrates the bell’s cocktail ears: “Yes, I suppose you could say that my husband had been falling apart for a while. He had changed a lot, and not just in terms of his wardrobe, I mean. So, in a way, I had expected it. Maybe you just assume it will happen a bit more gradually. But this? I definitely didn’t expect this. It’s so hard to believe that it’s him lying there... Yeah, or what do you even say? I just haven’t been able to grasp it yet.”

                       

She has come out of her front door and is talking to two police officers.

                       

“We’ll need to take his clothes and belongings to the station for analysis. That way, we might get closer to understanding what really happened to your husband,” says one of the officers.

                       

“Yes, well, he certainly won’t be needing it now,” replies the woman.

                       

“This bell—was it his, too?” asks the other officer.

                       

“No, I don’t know where it came from. It does look rather peculiar...” the woman responds.

                       

“Shall we take it to lost and found?” asks officer one.

                       

“No... Is it worth it?” replies the other.

                       

“No, we’ll skip it,” says the first.

                       

“Thank you for your help, ma’am. You’ll hear from us.”

                       

“I’ll look forward to it. Goodbye,” the woman concludes.

                       

Tears sit just behind the bell’s eyelids, but a fly doesn’t know how to cry. As it sinks deeper into the darkness, a clinking, floral plastic bag approaches it.

                       

“Shut up, man! What on earth is this? It’s really funny, isn’t it? Ding-a-ling-a-ling! Last call, puppet-man! You’d better come with me,” says a woman to the bell.

                       

She places the bell in her bag with her bottles and walks a bit down the path in the park when a nostalgic breeze of dog shit wafts into the bell, reaching the fly. For a moment, it forgets that it’s a bell. But its inner peace shatters the moment the bag’s handle breaks, and everything falls to the ground. The bottles shatter under the bell, which also cracks. “Oh, I can’t deal with this!” yells the woman, kicking the bag to the side of the path.

                    

                        

It has stopped raining, and the smell of wet dog shit once again fills the bell more and more. The smell soon fills the space so much that at first, it makes the fly tremble, which then becomes vibrations so powerful that they eventually cause the brass bell to explode into a thousand pieces in a great blue gas explosion. Scattered across the park lie shards of brass and glass, reflecting the sun’s rays like all the world’s crystals, on a bed of green grass and pieces of floral plastic. From here, the phoenix fly rises, and with 20,000 wingbeats per minute, it flies reborn across the park and into an open window in an apartment building.

                       

A stainless steel-finished microwave pings, and some random guy in his forties with a red beard and a pencil behind his ear walks through the doorway from the living room to the kitchen. He presses the button and takes out a plate of piping hot premium lobster bisque, which he brings with him to the TV.

                       

The fly enters through the window and drops a tiny fly speck on the oracle The Magic 8-Ball, which stands among a jewelry box, a Cava cork, and a can of Tiger Balm on the glass shelf hanging on the wall above the white-painted, brown leather sofa. With his gaze fixed on the TV, which shows a reconstruction of how the Russian cannibal policeman lured a victim into his car, the guy blows on a spoonful of soup. The fly settles on the spoon's rim, letting itself be peacefully guided toward the tonsil aroma of its final moment.

                       

Emil Keller Skousen September, 2024,

for COUNTER              

                   

3.
Diary (quick silver and black)

                       

Strykbräda jag hittade utanför ateljén, krok från kunstakademiet kanske, sängben hittat utanför bumzen tror det är dux så borde tagit alla fyra och sålt på dba, metallskena hittad i buskarna utanför cabinn hotel, strykjärn köpt av en tant på översta våningen i höghusen i valby, filter från min aerosolmask, metallbeslag till hyllorna i Leos butik och rakblad till mattkniv från farfar som nu är borttappad eller baxad av nån jag känner, metallbeslag hittat i cykelkorg på väg hem från jobbet, hårspännen hittade i fönstret på konsthall och plastdel hittat i cykelstigen vet inte vad den hör till, metallbeslag, metalldel Q säkert nåt med rör och skovelhjul i gummi, toppen av ett paraply, resten fick Unn till sedelblommorna, knappsats till buslur, metall med fuskpäls hittat på gatan, del till lampa hittad i inre by under plakatrunda, del av båge till solbrillor, hylla från soptunnan utanför utanför atelje, jordglob köpt av en sprätt på østerbro, ljusstakar dansk design hittade på gatan nån skänkte bort massa grejer, bjällra från kylskåpsmagnet (venetiansk mask), cykellampa och iphonebeskyttelse panserglas, knivställ från soptunnan utanför studio med gummidel till wireless hörlurar, bricka köpt på genbrug i Augustenborg under pandemin när jag installerade utställning som kanske skulle öppna och sen gjorde det, elementreglage och nässpraystopp, ljusstake köpt på genbrug i dalarna eller västerbotten med lock (italiensk foundation) som pajade när vi lånade Johannas lägenhet i skrapan, synålshållare från discounthyllan på lidl, ljusstake från kopparhatten, tändare, plastdel från hjälm tror jag, frigolit, ringklocka på fläktskydd? Minns inte var det kommer från, spegel och gummi från bilolycka vid søerne, metallbeslag, plast, lakritsfisk, grillpinnar hittade på mimersgade, lampskärmar från inre by, glas jag fick i gåva från Stephanie, beslag till rullgardin, hölje till lykta, tavla med plats till shotsglas, bygel från ddr fiskespö jag hittade utanför matbutik, metall och plast, två handtag, spännrem hittad utanför affischlagret, gummistrap, stol hittad efter vårrensning, rör(hållare) hittad i container efter att Matte blev klubbmästare, nät, plast, profil, plastficka, slaktade espresso-kapslar, svart lock som legat i silverbläck, rosa akryl, champagnehink från metallsoporna vid ateljén, smyckeshållare från second hand i höga kusten, ett par brillor från second hand hedemora, et par hittade på frederiksberg, lins hittad på åboulevarden, bordstablett, galler, blandat skrot, silverbete hittat utanför Irma på vesterbrogade, vet inte vad det är har sett fler efter, garderobskorg?, byglar/ handtag, paraplypinnar, kugghjul, plastskydd, barnvagnshjul, termolock eller nåt från köket iaf, spacer, stol hittad på granngårdennär jag flyttade till Köpenhamn, skruv, mutter, kontaktlim, tape, lim.                        

2023

 
                     

4.
Pig (quick silver and black)

 
                       

5.
Daybed (quick silver and black)

                       

Rökfärgad glasskiva från metallcontainer, säkerhetsnålar köpt online och i butik på Nørrebrogade, barnvagnsfälg, grillpinnar, eyelash brush hittad utanför ateljé, hålat lock och knopp bortskänkt på Mimersgade, del av plastlåda Unn och jag hade till verk, metallplatta med hållare, spikband, nagelsax, nötknäppare, s-beslag, dragkedjehänge, beslag til ram hittat vid affischlagret,, metallskenor från somaliska restauranten som stängde på baldersgade som hantverkarna egentligen ville behålla, hållare till pappershandduk som satt på skolgård på Vesterbro under pandemien, remmar från baghuset(?), betsel från secondhand minns inte var, serveringsbrickor från soptunna, vattenkanna från klampenborg station, ljusstake gammal design och skedar köpt i andenes när vädret var för ostadigt för att se val, nyckel med elefantlogo, armband hittat efter festival, coronamask köpt på tillbud nyligen, lödtråd till mina ophæng för afgang, metallstavar från ett konstverk jag destruerade, klippta grillpinnar, brännare, brutna 2mm, korklås, metallborr, plastdistans, smyckeshänge(sten urplockad) från marknad ved gammelstrand, larm, plastpip från jobbet, end plug från tenniscourt, knäckt skiva, korg köpt på dba bredvid parken där Graham hade party, klov till skivstång, paraplypinne, glaskupa, metallbeslag, blad från plastblomma, nålar, strössel, skorv, mutter, brickor, tape, lim.

2023