Julian Lass

On the fourth-floor terrace of the Tate Modern building, a waiter, Nuska, prepares a purple apron that wears the purple disinfectant spray he is carrying. He is staring at a St Paul’s Cathedral across the Thames, made hazy by the light. Caught in its beauty, he stands for just one moment to serve a man, seated. "I could never have imagined having work in the Tate, but the river is growing smaller everyday, that's all I'll say. When I first came here it was so wide that I was afraid. It blurred my vision, but after it receded, I could see more clearly than ever." While he was speaking, the tide went out, revealing mossey stones, old bottles, odd shoes, rusting cans, broken bones. "I carried on working and was glad when at last I could see in the distance the tide coming in, but the river is hurrying so swiftly towards me that I am already the last one working here." And in all this hurriedness stands the trap towards which Nuska is working. "You have only to change jobs", says the man, and pushes Nuska off the balcony.