October 4, 1957

“And it came to me then. That we were wonderful traveling companions but in the end no more than lonely lumps of metal in their own separate orbits. From far off they look like beautiful shooting stars, but in reality they’re nothing more than prisons, where each of us is locked up alone, going nowhere. When the orbits of these two satellites of ours happened to cross paths, we could be together. Maybe even open our hearts to each other. But that was only for the briefest moment. In the next instant we’d be in absolute solitude. Until we burned up and became nothing.”


I made this ink drawing in 2002 as part of a group of 16 inter-related drawings known collectively as Sputnik. I’d been reading Haruki Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart at the time, which of course really had very little to do with the Russian satellite itself, but did a lovely job of digging under my skin, anyway. Incidentally, “Sputnik” translates as either “companion,” or “travelling companion,” in Russian. But you probably already knew that.

Yay, Sputnik. Happy Birthday.

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