The Sun is music without do-re-mi. It’s music for the eyes. It moves with us. It shines in all directions. It touches the moon and your face at the same time. From birth to death, it calls each day into being. It’s the same sun that warmed the reptiles of the coal era. It’s the same sun that shone in the pharaohs’ eyes. It’s a furnace, a battery, a light, a clock, a star, a god. The flowers worship it. It makes rainbows. It draws shadows everywhere. It kisses everything it sees. It has seen you naked. It starts fires. It disappears at night. And eventually, it consumes us all. The Sun does not care how you taste. It doesn’t care about your life, your job, your values, that you resemble your sisters, that you have a broken tooth, that you are covered in flies, that you planned a trip, or that you still have work to do. It does not care that you promised it a secret promise—just you and the sun. The Sun still devours everyone. Butterflies are strong fliers. They have been seen flapping their wings across oceans towards certain death. Is that because they know something foundational awaits? Open your eyes. Look at the Sun. You will see your departed loved ones. They seem okay.
—Tom Thayer
A Biography of the Sun
is Thayer's first solo exhibition at Bureau.
Bureau