Lost Art: black balloons

Temple Bar, Dublin, around 1999. The large shop-front windows of the corner gallery are obscured by the contents of the art gallery: the whole space is half full of black balloons. Among this sea of dark air, there is an old bearded man sat in a chair. He blows up more balloons, one after the other. Will he stop as the level of balloons reaches his neck? I didn’t stay long enough to find out. Little did I know I’d think about it many years after and always wonder. Discussing the meaning with friends, Magda gasped in horror when I suggested that the man was blowing up his own death, that each breath we take is an exhalation closer to the grave. I can’t remember other interpretations we shared, just Magda’s unease that departed her from her usual happy self. I do love simple symbols. Black. Breath. Old man. Even though they seem too obvious, they’re never boring.