It was the summer of 2022, precisely the 22nd of June. On the shore of Lake Sevan, a strange figure sat on a wooden chair by the water. The sun was at its zenith, the lake lay still, and the chair’s shadow cast upon the green surface resembled a cage.
The man wore a hat that shaded his bronze-like face, reminiscent of a sculpture. In his hands, he cradled an animal like one might hold a newborn. It was hard to tell if the creature was alive or dead—it looked lifeless but, at times, gave faint signs of movement.
Between the man and the animal, an awkward, silent dialogue seemed to be happening.
“This lake seems to be dying,” said one of them.
“Dying? How do you know? It seems rather… blooming,” replied the other.
“Well, exactly. It is blooming—that’s why it’s dying.”
“How do you mean?”
“It blooms because microorganisms are taking over.”
“Microorganisms? What kind of organisms are those?”
“Not rabbits or hares, apparently.”
“Stop kidding me,” said the hare. “Last time, when you explained pictures to me, you were much more serious. What kind of organisms? Tell me.”
“Bacteria. Unicellular organisms.”
“Unicellular? Bacteria? I don’t quite follow.”
“It’s just one cell. How should I explain? When there’s only one, you don’t notice it. But when they multiply, when they crowd together, they become visible.”
“Ah, I think I understand—it’s like wolves.”
“Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Even one wolf doesn’t go unnoticed, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Unless you’re in a dark forest,” said the hare. “Oh, by the way, you once promised to explain why you spent an entire week with a wolf in the same room.”
“It was a coyote.”
“Well, not much different,” said the hare, his gaze seeming to dive inward. After a pause, he continued, “And does it have anything to do with pictures—with your art?”
“Yes. Isn’t it obvious? Though it’s not just about art,” said the man.
The hare pressed on. “I wonder, would every human do such a thing? What’s your take?”
“No. I believe only artists would.”
“But didn’t you say everyone is an artist?”
“Right. But here’s the thing—while every human could do it, only artists actually get to doing it. Do you see what I mean?”
“I think I understand.”
“And then there’s this: artists want everything and everyone to be part of their work. Perhaps even become their work.”
“Is this why you artists bring coyotes, hares, horses, sharks, and other creatures into your galleries?”
“I think you’ve got that right,” said the man.
A gray cloud drifted over the lake, shifting the light. The water seemed even greener now.
“So, what happens to the water when bacteria overpopulate?” asked the hare.
“Don’t you see? It turns green. Would you swim in this lake?” The man leaned forward, bringing the hare closer to the water.
“Don’t be absurd. Hares don’t swim.”
“But sometimes, you leap into cold water without knowing how to swim, don’t you?”
“Well, that’s more a human thing—hares only jump in if they’re chased by a fox or wolf.”
“All right, forget swimming. Would you drink this water? Do you think it’s drinkable?”
“Not really. It smells bad.”
“Exactly. Better not. It’s slowly becoming a swamp,” said the man. Then he asked, “Do you have any idea why the bacteria are overpopulating?”
“Well, any living thing overpopulates when there’s too much food or too few predators—or both,” said the hare.
“Exactly. You understand this better than many humans,” said the man. He continued, “In this lake’s case, rather too much food is the problem.”
“But what do bacteria eat? And where does the food come from? I don’t see how it gets into the lake.”
“That’s part of the problem—you don’t see. Humans send it. They eat, and their waste flows into the lake. They raise animals, and the animals’ waste flows into the lake. They grow crops, and the nutrients flow into the lake. All of it feeds the bacteria.”
The man and the hare sat still and silent for a long time, aligning themselves with the lake’s green reality.
Twilight crept over the shore. A couple appeared, walking slowly toward them—a woman with long hair and a man with a hat and a red scarf. As they drew closer, the hare heard voices but couldn’t discern who spoke.
“Ya, ya, ya, look who’s here.”
“Ne, ne, ne, are you mocking me?”
“No, it’s not mockery. Just another language.”
“Յա, յա, յաա, էս ո՞վա եկել…”
“Ne, ne, ne, weine ne…”
“We are not sure,” said the hare.
“Not sure about what?” asked the woman.
“That it’s a different language,” said the hare.
“Indeed, you cannot be sure,” said the woman.
“Look at your hair. So beautiful!” said the man with the hare.
“Look at your hare. So beautiful!” replied the woman with long hair.
“Do you come to this lake often?” asked the hare.
“Yes, quite often. We adore it.”
“I suppose, in winter, you’ll have green ice,” said the hare.
“But I have green eyes, winter and summer,” said the woman.
“Yes, but when the water’s green, winter brings green ice. And your eyes will still be green,” said the hare.
Silence hung over them until the bearded man broke it.
“And what are you doing here?” he asked.
“We’re watching the green water. Josef’s explaining why Lake Sevan is blooming,” said the hare. “He says it’s because humans feed the bacteria with all their crap.”
Another pause settled before the man with the hare spoke again.
“So, are you simply wondering, or do you have somewhere to go?”
The couple exchanged a glance.
“We’re going to Napoli.”
* This dialogue was written and performed by Harutyun Alpetyan as part of the performance “Liturgia Beuys. Sonic flux totalsystemic ecopoetic” on 26th December 2024, in the Ground Floor of the State Philharmonia of Armenia