Classroom (Lovers)

by The Cowl Editor on March 4, 2019


by Dawyn Henriquez ’19

An Interpretation of “Untitled” (Perfect Lovers) by Felix Gonzalez-Torres


Clock on the Far Wall

It hangs nearly lifeless above the seldom-visited bookshelf. Its crimson hand slaps each second, skipping its obligatory pause at each black line. It races instead, tracing the lines of its body with each round. “I’m ok. I exist. I’m ok. I am here,” it ticks. Deranged from loss, like a loon at the asylum, it walks its pedantic circle. A dog, contorted neck and twisted rump, chasing its nonexistent tail, hypnotizing the onlooker. Forever after the sweet taste of sanity.


Clock Above the Door

Its dull face tells of the time it’s had. 12 is just as relevant as 7 and 8 as close as 5, because it doesn’t care whether it lives or dies by its purpose anymore. Time is no longer of its essence. But it’s sane, its arms still moving how they were synchronized to at the very beginning—the faded red hand taking its necessary half-second pauses from jogging. Its black minutes and hours ticking to the right times that it only follows because it was theirs. It still remembers its partner. It can still recall when each one of its ticks were echoed. It can still recount how it whispered ‘I love you’ in between each sound. It still relays their lost synchrony that they shared back before one of them was moved to the far wall. Every second the same as when they were one.


At the Blackboard

Two teachers chat at the front of the room. One proctors an exam. The other is on their lunch period. “They’re finally replacing that damn clock.”


A broken clock with a sped up small hand
Graphic design by Connor Zimmerman ’20