In the room, I feel like talking about the garden below.
Seated, one already gets lost in it. Improbable boundaries. Lost quarters.
Arabesque? Andalusian? … Mediterranean.
The light filters through the shutters and runs along the line of mirrors, as dazzling as a glint on blue water, as sensual as patches of sunlight in the shade of foliage.
Phoenix, another name for the Sun.
The room as a botanical label for the Palm. A focal point on the garden, luminous in the window, the Phoenix is the first drift of the gaze.
Phoenix canariensis.
And since the room is that place where “little deaths” are lived, the Phoenix will also be the Egyptian bird that is reborn from its ashes.
The Sun, the Palm, the Bird. Who is the Phoenix? Who is the king who rises to such a height?
“The Phoenix Room” is that of the one who asks for it.
