Thank heavens I made it to the Henry last weekend the day before the William Kentridge show closed.
What can you say about William Kentridge, that would be better than the language he uses?
Blue lines connecting things at a quickening pace with telephones ringing and cats screeching and wheels turning and squares breaking. Lines become sound and make a tower fall down, and make one man look at another. Tinsel cat runs; film tape spins a web. Gun shots, protest, number explosions, attack. Black cat shape-shifting into a bomb and cat hairs sink into the blue lines so the only thing left is a pleading GIVE FOR. FOR. GIVE. FOR as the sad man’s coat pocket brims with blue waterfalls and waters rising.
