In the rooms, elephants come and go, remembering Michelangelo (I always wanted to do that). Over coffee cups and dirty spoons they speak words of love as if we are not living in the back alley of previously hidden targets and unhappy teddy bears. In the cardboard carnival of our lives, a zoo of our own making disappears into a private world of black and white dreams never to be repeated, a kiss is still a kiss, so too, the abyss. Elephants know that memory is a two-edged sword, indifferent to itself and its use, on account of the past is always past, even though it is never really past (Bill Faulkner said that, I think ). The zoo is always open. Until it isn’t.
Photos by Michael Lebowitz. All rights reserved.