March 1st 2010

Monday

Huge trucks everywhere.





The sound of water dripping onto cement. An airplane overhead, a truck bleeping backwards urgently, in threes.


Now and again power tools fire up in high pitched, whining choruses. A sense of space in the plaza as pedestrian footfalls echo across the square.


A quiet afternoon. No honking euphoria, no babies in strollers, red hats or painted faces, no Canadian flags.


Instead, hammers pound against ice; huge chunks crash onto the aluminium floor.

ICE GATE is smashed and chiseled into managaeable chunks, pushed, shard by shard, towards the door of its presentation case, and hurled into the dumpster.


It’s the day after closing. The 2010 Olympics have passed.


Finally, the paintings are gone.