Tartu — for one night only
A calm evening in a second largest, but still a rather tiny city of Estonia. People are celebrating Easter evening, but mysterious EvL doesn’t sleep. His ghostly senses detect an old Estonian, communicating with him via telepathic channel by altering the continuum of space-time. The old man requires a portal, he wants to see whether his old friend is still around. No time to wait, EvL emerges in to the night with his tools and begins the sacred ritual, hoping for a cosmic serendipity of achieving this wizardous task.
EvL always has his tools ready, since these old Estonians have a peculiar tendency to choose him as a medium of appearance. His style is quick and efficient, he appears as a ghost and leaves as a wind, acting as a translucent phantom who leaves no traces. His task is teleporting ancient people in to the present world for them to communicate with surroundings and interact with locals. Funnily enough, nobody is actually sure whether he actually is real, or he (it) is just a simulacrum created by society, like an anthropomorphised cultural abstraction which explains all these anomalies appearing in streets, like some kind of ancient myth.
Culture is like cult — a revelation, and artists are its seekers. What distinguishes great art from the rest is that here the artist is ready to abandon all his predilections in obedience to the truth mandated by the art itself. Art has established a unique position in current society — it is answerable to no authority but himself, hence the artists are like prophets of our times — the only mediums who are able to speak truth. But what if there is no artist behind the art? What if it’s created by society itself, and there is only a medium who gives the last physical touch? Maybe it’s the way how actually culture works, being a stage for the word of community, being a mirror reflecting the hopes and concerns of the society. A cult of truth.
With a subtle swing of hand, a can of spray-paint turns into a tool, capable of deifying the laws of nature. A world stands still for a couple of moments, while Edward, putting all his effort into an action as long, as a blink of an eye, completes his nocturnal mission.
Few moments after he’s done, a wild snowstorm appears, as a sign that teleportation is successful. Old man drags his pipe and calmly observes the surroundings. “Streets are extraordinary clean here, these people have some truly well mannered horses out here” — he quietly murmurs, disturbing the mellow symphony of snowflakes touching a concrete floor.