Videography -  Luis Salazar

Editing - Sofia Taylor

Video courtesy of MASS MoCA 

Images by Ernesto Eisner

To learn more, visit the MASS MoCA website

THE CONTINUING ADVENTURES OF DOCTOR ORFEO:

Love From Vicki Island

As he rounded the bend in the old tufa causeway that led to the harbor, Doctor Orfeo got a feeling that things would continue to not be as they seemed that day, and perhaps for a long time to come. Having defeated another obstacle in the launderers’ quarter on the bluff above the harbor, he was one ally richer and poorer in time and energy. This was the case for his more recent adventures.

Thoughts about Doctor Ione raced through his head - but he also thought about an ancient plague of infectious orange blood that spread like quicksilver through the Greek colonies in Campania during the pre-Roman era. He thought about Don Benedetto, too, even though the Doctor tried to put him out of his mind. There was so much more that needed to be done, beyond even solving the mysteries that besieged the city of Santa Ninfa.

Sometimes he imagined scenarios where the city was encouraged to evacuate to a nicer town along the coast, one where the only problems were ones of a municipal nature rather than a metaphysical one. For whatever reason, Santa Ninfa stood at the threshold of worlds and was always known for burning the candle at both ends.

On one side, the old volcano, and on the other, the sea. A long line of metaphysical doctors like Doctor Orfeo had visited the city in old times and kept a council of doctors, the Association of the Psychic Lancet, which held the reality warp that emanated from the very foundations of the city at bay. But as years passed, the Association’s purpose was forgotten, and their institutional knowledge waned until attrition and time finished it off for good.  After the eldest member retired to a vineyard, all that was left was the most junior member, a woman who kept a shimmering cloud in her cupboard.

After selling off the old Council offices, a squat building of tan masonry with terra-cotta reliefs depicting miraculous works, and locking the front door for the last time, she left it to memory in the half darkness. She later held a little boy’s hand in hers as the two of them boarded a dark car and left the studio that was their home since the boy was born. The little boy looked up to the red-framed window with the stained glass floral rondele, and knew it was the last time he’d ever look on the street from that vantage.  “That was some time ago,” thought Doctor Orfeo.

Doctor Orfeo gazed through the pitted archway of veined marble, past the old bronze gate, and saw a woman standing by the iron railing around the harbor overlook. For a moment, he thought she was Doctor Ione, but he knew better. She looked over her shoulder as he approached and stopped a distance to her left. After a time, they looked to one another and exchanged smiles. She wore a long indigo colored coat with amber embroidery, and her round glasses reflected the blueness of the sea.

“There’s nothing like this place,” he said.

“Not in the whole city. I’ve read that this used to be the site of a lagoon some two hundred years ago. A precious ship sank and they built this overlook on top of it, vowing that no finer vessel could ever dock here again,” she said.

“You’re well versed in Santa Ninfa’s history,” replied the Doctor. “I’m Doctor Orfeo, it’s a pleasure meeting you.”

The woman smiled, “Doctor Mikare, Empathic Botanist. Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard about your work, Doctor Orfeo. Our fields are very different, but I was wondering if our paths would ever cross. I study the flooded forest that emerges every so often on the horizon. It tends to dry up, so I need to keep it going sometimes. If you ever see a green boat, that’s me. Empathic plants grow in that depressed island; a geode of time and space. I water them with my assistant’s tears so they’re never forgotten. He’s off in the jungles looking for rare onions as we speak, so now I’m waiting for him to return so I can get back to work.”

“Those plants must have considerable spirit. I’ve only read about such things, never seen them up close. But if they could grow anywhere, it’s here, this is as good an axis mundi as one can find, the place where the sea meets the horizon and then some.

“Yes,” Doctor Mikare replied, with one hand still upon the railing, “after one of the oldest volcanoes went dormant, it tore a direct line to the metaphysical realm. If you were to walk down one side of the sinkhole, you would get the impression that it goes on for about 300 kilometers, but it’s really a lot smaller. I teach the plants down there half-forgotten languages, so that it creates a kind of seed bank for the future.”

Doctor Orfeo smiled at that thought. The metaphysical crab apple that was hiding in his  coat pocket stirred with intensity at the idea of guzzling tears for breakfast. He patted his pocket softly and looked back out at the horizon beyond the railing. “I have an idea. This city is getting overrun right now with plant spirits. Do you think your empathic plants would have it in them to host some new neighbors on their island?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Doctor Mikare, and the idea unfolded in her inner mind like a grand play. As they hatched a plan, Doctor Orfeo quickly drew up some notes on the back of a colorful postcard with a blue and violet scrollwork border, emblazoned with the proclamation, “LOVE FROM VICKI ISLAND”

by Anthony Giordano