1.

swaying down the catwalk like she’s done so many times before in her young life, the photographers’ flashes this time rain down on her like lethal, venomously spitting sniper fire. zoe’s currently presenting the fifth outfit of alexander mcQueens’ superb spring / summer 2006 collection when it all of a sudden dawns on her, that she isn’t at all ready to die. her long stunning legs bend and everything turns black, as she tumbles down the platform she’s thus far walked herself to stardom on. a unified gasp runs through the audience. the soundtrack of mcQueens’ show, a bizarre techno-punk number by one of his latest lovers, abruptly cuts off as if backstage somebody’s head has just been smashed up against the mixing table’s volume control. people are rushing round all over the place. another storm of lightning radiates from the surrounding cameras and strikes even the remotest corners of the chic parisian art deco venue, the proud host of tonight’s show. behind zoe’s closed eyelids it all starts to slowly fade away. “where’s the fucking ambulance?”, she hears somebody screaming. the voice is distorted and hardly distinguishable from the white noise which seems to be increasingly coming from miles away from her, perhaps even centuries. she grasps some last traces of panic until there’s only just absolute silence. has this been it?

lucy from the agency sits next to her in the neat bright room of the private clinic they’ve booked her into. she’s playing some inane game on her latest nokia mobile phone gadget. “hey – zoe – you’re finally back. that’s terrific”, she suddenly bursts out, clasping her hands like a small child, “how do you feel?”. she bends down to kiss both her cheeks as if they’d just met at some party. she’s such a sweet girl, lucy. kind of totally innocent which is pretty hard to find these days. especially not in the bloody fashion industry. while zoe’s slowly getting accustomed to her regained consciousness she notices that the sun is shining directly in her face. through the window she can also hear the birds twittering and their soothing melodies are gracefully cocooning the humming background noises of the city – was it paris? next to the window there’s a calendar with some beach scene. mediterranean. lots of yachts. it looks like a rich place, nice, cannes, monaco, something like that. it is sunday, the 21st of july, a hot french summer afternoon. instead of coming to see of how she’s coping with her – one would’ve thought – pretty spectacular incident, david, her current ‘boyfriend’, pretends to be simply too busy to fly all the way across the atlantic. he’s instead presumably shagging yet again another talentless wannabe actress in yet another generic manhattan five star hotel room. she can already see the faces of the guys back at the agency, looking ‘deeply concerned’ and all of that but actually behind the surface only add up the financial losses her accident has caused to the annual company turnover. most of her friends are unfortunately just as shallow. and as for her mother, she doesn’t even remotely consider contacting her, a demented ex-crackwhore sadly rotting away in some fancy west london old people’s home she’s paying for month after month. she feels utterly alone and she’s just had a near-death-experience – a ‘wake up call’ as her therapist would put it. and yet she cannot seem to find the emotional capacity to drown herself in misery or self-pity. instead she just looks at sugar-sweet lucy and smiles. she has at this very moment decided to change her life forever. she doesn’t know what she’s going to do or how she’s going to do it, but things have got to be different. who is she anyway? she basically hasn’t got a clue. a brand new and more authentic zoe is only waiting to be born. “to be honest with you, lucy, i don’t think i’ve ever felt better in my life”, she whispers, her voice is still weak. she breathes in some fresh air and the oxygen explodes in her lungs surprisingly sharp. this is what it must’ve felt like at the moment of her actual birth. after another couple of deep breaths she’s suddenly starting to feel quite inebriated. everything’s spinning in her head. her face turns red and goose bumps run all over her body, she shivers. it is as if she’s just quickly downed several quick salty shots of tequila before hitting the stage life has chosen for her to be on from now. with a healthy confidence and uncompromising determination she scatters her kit across a gathered audience of unhappy fools, all staring up at her with their mouths wide open until she just stands there, naked and sacred. and up for anything.

from her upper west side apartment she’s got a lovely view over central park, which is always nice, admittedly, but just absolutely amazing in summer. she bought the place about two years ago and it was one of the most life changing decisions she’s ever made, somewhere along the lines of her abortion three years earlier. although she’d really liked the guy then and in a way getting pregnant by him had felt somehow right, she decided against also becoming a mother at that stage of her career. and puff – just like that – the very same career since then almost overnight shot through the roof, spreading her body and face over countless glossy fashion and lifestyle magazine covers all over the world. funny how things turn out sometimes. anywhow, she decides to take a bath. steaming hot water pours into the polymer tub whose colour and material matches the toilet seat next to it. she found them both in this ueber-cool designer shop downtown, like the egg shaped musk-fragrance candles which are neatly draped across the room. she ignites a couple and turns off the main light in order to have a good look at herself in the mirrored wall facing the tub. satisfied with what she sees she finally slides into the water. this is it, her life so far. looking at it superficially it isn’t actually too bad at all, except that something deep inside her is missing something in it. after smoking away half the joint a moroccan model friend has left her the other day – “is real mmmh”, he promised – it slowly dawns on her that she has to get out of here first in order to find out what it might be.

“to say i’m shocked would be a complete understatement, zoe”, francoises bursts out as she looks down on 260 broadway from the panoramic window of her stylish office. “it’s for six months, francoises, no big deal, is it? why don’t you just look at it as a long holiday, i haven’t had any for ages anyway”, zoe tries to reason. a pin board behind the desk is plastered with countless photographs of stunning models, all currently represented by elite. ever since she took on the post as executive director nine years ago, francoises has done a really good job. be it due to her swiss parents or the girls’ schools down there in geneva , her efficiency and determination to succeed are just truly remarkable. both the models as well as the clients are deeply impressed with her agency and would recommend it to anybody without hesitation. in short, francoises is a loving and caring mother figure sporting the necessary iron fists to push her interests through without ever compromising. they both got on from the beginning, seven years ago, when zoe was picked off the streets of east london by one of francoises’ extraordinarily astute model scouts who’re also at this very moment diligently sifting through the world’s major capitals for any new faces. “i’d need a holiday too, believe me”, francoises admits after a while.
“you should get one, francoises. it really doesn’t help anybody if you’re not happy.
francoises doesn’t look at her but instead spots some human ant crawling along broadway 127 floors below, and it might as well be one of her scouts she’s convinced for a while. “in a way your whole life is like an endless series of addictions”, she says almost to herself, “and at some stage your career, your hobbies, your friends and your love life simply become yet another series of bad habits which are increasingly difficult to break the older you get.” the humming chords of another passing day in new york city are all they hear for a while. never before has zoe seen her agent and friend this serious and the whole situation has turned out quite touching, almost moving. but then francoises the business woman returns and their conversation changes tune entirely. “so i’ll take bookings again from the 1st of january 2006, is that correct?”, she wants to know. zoe laughs, “you’ll get over it, francoises. there are lots of other hot models under your roof to keep you happy.” she goes over and kisses her cheek. “i’ll see you in a couple of months again, francoises. i won’t take my mobile with me and i’ve decided not to do any emails either, this will be it then …”
“so where’s this place you’re going again?”, francoises asks her, mainly to keep the creeping melancholy under control.
“iceland. a friend has already been there a couple of times and she says it’s absolutely amazing.”
francoises looks down on broadway again. she catches another ant scout and thus once again successfully represses any uncomfortable emotion. “sounds great”, she mutters, in her mind somewhere else already.
“take it easy, francoises. i’m already looking forward to seeing you again”, zoe says in her sweetest voice, “byeee”. she turns round and leaves the office, passing through the busy company corridors to make her way to the high speed elevators which will swiftly bring her back to base.

“yeah exactly, baby, for six months, that’s right”, she’s back at her place and on the phone to david. for a few minutes he’s totally with her, something he hasn’t been really since they met at last year’s golden globe after-show party and which also then only lasted right up until they fucked back in her room completely coked-up and horny like two lonesome laboratory bunnies. he briefly behaves like a small boy whose mother’s just told him to stay put while she’s gonna pop down for some shopping. her announcement has obviously triggered this ’selective caring’ instinct again, let’s call it ‘love’ to keep things simple. well well, my sweet david, perhaps you do want to build up some deeper and more serious relationships in your life after all. “you won’t miss me anyway”, she jokes while she packs her two suitcases which lie there waiting on her massive water bed. when packing she always has to constrain herself since the last thing she wants is to be one of those pathetic super models who turn up for a weekend trip to the countryside with crates of outfits, just in case somebody from hello! magazine might turn up, ‘unexpectedly’. “yes of course, i will”, she replies to his fatherly advice to look after herself. toothbrush? tweezers? she roams through the bathroom cabinet. his tone of voice has now gone back to normal. like so often, he’s probably with a girl or two and even as they’re talking about her leaving for quite a significant period of time, one of them will already be pulling down his black calvin klein pants in giggling anticipation of his admittedly accomplished lovemaking skills. she has to laugh at this thought, he just loves sex, good old david. “well david, i’ll see you again in winter my baby. have a good time until then – i know you will. thanks. byeee.” she closes the phone and chucks it on the bed next to the suitcases. has she got everything? it doesn’t really matter since most of the time she’ll be naked anyway. “the only thing you need at the retreat is yourself”, it promises in the brochure and somehow this makes sense, to turn up without anything, fragile and exposed, if rebirth is supposed to happen. she’s so excited by the whole thing now, she can hardly wait. she’ll surely have plenty of time to find herself among facials and pool visits at the exclusive icelandic spa, millions of miles away from the only life she’s known thus far.

2.

the mud covers her body like a second skin. she can feel the cooling, viscous consistency of the loam pack everywhere on her body, even inside her ears. alone in the dimmed room which pretty much looks like the tomb of an intergalactic war hero, she notices that the earthy matter doesn’t smell too bad at all. slowly drying it releases its rejuvenating juices into her slim,
tanned body. the whole thing is indeed just absolutely amazing.

later on in the evening she has a swim in the steaming hot sulphur pools outside. through the heavy fog she glimpses the vast ice crusted landscape surrounding the spa. for a while she joyfully paddles with her arms before turning on her back to freely float on the surface of the water. the sky above her has become pitch black by now and the beauty of the stars as they flickeringly glitter through the steam overwhelms her on the second day. she starts to cry. it is as if an already poriferous valve has suddenly burst open and between alternating waves of pain and happiness she lets go of all the stress and tension which have accumulated from all those years of hiding, from herself and from others, and all those years of lying, to herself and to others, and it doesn’t stop for another three days.

“do you like it here?” the short chubby guy asks from the opposite bench of the sauna. at this time of the day they’re the only guests there. his white fluffy towel is carefully draped around his waist so that the flab of his belly can present itself to the dry heat of the room with a sweaty but polite bow. she has noticed this guy for a couple of days now. despite her flawless body and her pretty relaxed but in-your-face attitude to also presenting it, she hasn’t as yet seen any sign of the deeply submissive behaviour patterns most other men would usually display in her presence. she gets up from her comfy lying position so that her little pear-shaped tits can poke directly at his face. not the slightest reaction and he doesn’t even seem to be gay either – how funny. “for me it’s the first time i’m here and to be honest with you i’m totally blown away by the whole thing”, she finally answers and also introduces herself by the way, “i’m zoe”. they shake hands. “i’m paul, it’s very nice to meet you”, he says, “for me it’s also the first time and i’m also absolutely loving it”
“it’s beyond any dream”, she enthusiastically agrees and gives him one of her sweetest smiles. he seems to be a really nice guy.
“i’m a molecular biologist”, he finally says, a bit awkwardly and out of any context, almost as if he was a bit ashamed of it, but then again, not really.
“oh wow, that sounds really fascinating”, she replies. she somehow feels relaxed with this guy and for some reason trusts him completely, although she really couldn’t tell why. “i’m working in fashion, basically selling clothes with my looks”, she tells him with the intention of leaving her job description as low key as possible.
“i see”, he nods understandingly. still smiling she goes back into her favourite lying position. it just feels really good to meet this guy. a friendly looking female staff member quickly pops in to bring the wooden water bucket which is obligatory in this chamber at half hourly intervals. “aaah, very nice”, paul welcomes her and gets up while the staff member leaves again quietly. using the accompanied wooden spoon he draws some water out of the bucket, adds a few drops of mandarin oil which he’s been hiding somewhere between his towel and pours it all in one go onto the glowing stones of the sauna heater. sudden outbursts of steam flood into the room and they both groan in unison. their hands desperately clasp around the edge of their bench as the biting fumes nag on their bodies like a hungry swarm of piranhas.

breakfast usually takes place between seven and eight in the morning. if you don’t turn up on time you’ll not get anything to eat for another five hours. she’d gone to bed quite late the previous night and couldn’t possibly drag herself out of bed this morning. after almost two weeks she still can’t get used to the strict timetables of this ever so recluse sanctuary. now she’s bloody starving and unfortunately has got to hold it for another three hours. she’s opted for the steam room. there are a few people there, paul is one of them, although almost invisibly hidden behind the fumes. his day’s been rather good so far. he enjoyed a green loam face pack in the morning followed by some therapeutic deep organ massage which had been quite painful to start with, but after a while felt almost outrageously relaxing. this was then followed by a refreshing swim in the eucalyptus scented chambers of the main pool area. now he feels quite ‘content’, if that’s the right expression. ‘happy’, sort of. after everyone else has left, him and zoe move closer together as usual. she lies back into her favourite position, naked and dignified. endless layers of fog are creeping through the room like giant translucent ghosts. “did you know that we continuously photocopy ourselves?”, he starts. his voice is calm and consistent, she finds it extremely comforting to listen to. “this photocopying process seems to be the bottom line of life as we know it”. she doesn’t feel the need to answer or to interrupt. instead she can’t wait to hear some more. after a quick pause he continues, “every minute we photocopy several kilometres of our dna, can you imagine? in a way this awesome rate is like the heartbeat of the universe”. with her eyes closed she’s riding the waves of thought he’s just introduced her to. it’s quite an outworldly journey and she cannot remember the last time she’s felt that much at ease with herself.

according to his experience it’s definitely not an easy task for most people to take the truth about LIFE on board, about US, the futile-transitory machine that we are. awareness just needs its time to seep into the brain. the long break gives himself the chance to look at this person he’s really just met for the first time, properly. through the heavy, hot fumes he examines her absolutely flawless beauty. what an utterly perfect code. it is in fact of such staggering magnificence that he can’t remember of ever having seen anything like it, not even under the electron microscope and most definitely not this alive and spread out right in front of him. her magnetism is so captivating that he has to literally force himself to look away from her. endomorphines are rushing around his brain frenetically and underpin his general contentment with a broad grin on his face. the hormones of love. yes indeed, he does feel profoundly ‘complete’ at this very snapshot of eternity. what an amazing experience. he breathes in and out deeply quite a few times, indulging in the feast of comfort which is excitedly flashing around his body. slowly he continues with his lesson, letting it all pour out from the deep this time, “any sloppy photocopying alters the initial code and thereby results in mutations. some of these mutations are in fact advancing us, making us ‘better’, if that makes any sense. but most of the time they’d simply just fuck us up. ageing itself, science tends to believe now, seems to be only such a mutation”. heavy clouds of steam continue to float through the room silently. again he’s letting it all settle until he eventually concludes, “hence life on earth is merely a 6 million year long history of photocopying primordial soup recipe code to eventually look like you and me here, sweatily sitting in this icelandic sauna chamber. and while i’m chatting away and you’re listening either interested or bored, we’re actually photocopying ourselves into the future”. another pause, this time a final. she sighs. so this is what EXISTENCE comes down to then in the end. here it is, the truth she’s always somehow felt. the steam above her head is so dense now that it almost seems to stand there, without any signs of movement, without any sense of weight, just waiting for something to happen, some code to be generated somewhere, some time to be passing somewhere. she silently lies there, pinned down to her bench and carries on staring vacantly while her mind is helplessly drifting off deeper into this world, the real world, the universe and her deserved place within. it’s the most amazing trip she’s ever had, all without the use of any drugs whatsoever. the truth is that both her body and her mind have never been more pristine and clear than at this very moment, in this timeless parallel universe of an icelandic steam room where she’s having a good time with some overweight guy who just happens to be incredibly sweet and she’s slowly starting to feel like a crystal.

after another day full of massages, steam baths and saunas she wakes up from a dream where her and paul are making out in one of the sulphur pools outside. the dream really irritates her, firstly because she hasn’t had sexual fantasies for ages to be honest, and secondly because she doesn’t even remotely fancy paul. of course he’s really sweet and cool, an amazing guy and everything but making love with him, that’s an entirely different story. perhaps it is sad but looks to her are just very important and paul’s simply not really her kind of guy, sorry about that. unable to go back to sleep she heads towards the kitchen area. like all the spa facilities the guests’ cabins have been fitted out by this ueber-cool danish designer who’s shot to fame in the early 90’s by allowing a vibrant but bored generation of post-yuppies to buy into the 60’s and 70’s visual world of their parents. she flicks on the kettle and makes herself some organic nettle tea. in the mini fridge there’s still a bit left from the flame-grilled soya steak with delisciously green baby leaf salad from the day before. she decides to devour it cold and the steady chewing rhythm calms down her itchy nervous system nicely. “i know, the realisation that our life is utterly futile and ‘pointless’ is a lengthy and very painful process”, she remembers paul’s words and takes a sip of the herbal tea. it is nice and further contributes to calming her down. can she ever go back to her old life again? could she basically ever do anything else than modelling, snorting endless lines of coke day after day and hanging out with pretentious arseholes who’re effortlessly pretending to be her friends all the time? and what is all of this about paul? it’s true, she really likes him and everything. but what does this ultimately mean?

it feels odd the next time they meet. there’s a pang of loneliness in the air as she knows that he’ll leave in just a few days. “i can’t sleep at the moment”, she starts today’s conversation in an attempt to distract from the highly uncomfortable situation. he moves closer to her on the sauna bench that day and rubs her back comfortingly. it must be the first time they’ve actually got physical contact. paul still remains as distant as ever but the gesture alone soothes her a little nonetheless. “i know how it feels”, he says with a low voice. father to girl, it all feels so goddamn comforting and nice. she resists the urge to just put her head on his lap and allow herself to turn into a melting receiver for his ever so delicate strokes through her hair. what the hell is happening to her? could this all perhaps be love after all? is this how it feels, this ‘love’? it is simply impossible. it can not possibly be. and yet, there’s this almost painful urge to be close to this guy and, whatever, today she just simply can’t deal with it. “i’m really sorry, paul”, she finally says and gently with her hand pats on his shoulder. she gets up, grabs her towel and heads towards the exit. before she leaves she turns round to him with a shrugging grimace indicating something like ‘it’s-just-too-hot-in-here-today’ and it skilfully allows her to escape the situation without leaving any nasty traces of tension or sadness behind. at least not at this time.

they’re in the sulphur pool outside. it is around 11.30 pm and most guests have gone to bed already or are hanging out in the futuristic lounge area with its huge, flat, plasma screen showing some satellite channels in random order. this evening there’s an icy breeze which pulls the steam swiftly across the surface of the water. it’s paul’s final night. a grey cloud of depression hangs over their heads only waiting to come down on them as soon as they lose their already fragile composure. it’ll be extremely difficult to say goodbye, they’ve become so close over the last couple of weeks. of course they’ll somehow try to stay in touch but it’s really highly unlikely. he lives somewhere in england on the countryside with a wife and three kids and she’s in new york city, a much sought-after super model with a most likely even busier timetable than ever before. the practicalities of a friendship like this are not particularly promising. perhaps an email every now and again. but she’s just not the kind of person to bother about typing what she feels into some machine connected to the internet and she knows all too well that he wouldn’t be the kind of person either. mutual holidays here in iceland every two years or so? how pathetic. “more or less this is it”, she thinks. “more or less this is it”, she says. finally, after three months of endless loam packs, steam baths and massages, her thoughts are perfectly in tune with her actions. everything comes out pure and unadulterated. “i’m not sure how to deal with this either”, he answers after a while, his voice is hoarse and trembling. the stars have now become completely hidden from them, they’re both trapped in an infinite, white capsule of fog. here and now. the heartbeat of the universe. she rests her head on his shoulder and doesn’t say anything. he remains also mute, stares instead blankly into the passing white steam ghosts as they continuously change their shape, their size and position. FRACTALS. fractals moving through time and space in the search for peace, perhaps, and also eternity. both their lives are nothing more than this. but then again. they’re also nothing less.

reinhard schleining
london, june 2005 - september 2006

revision 02 / september 2006

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