these long-sleeves remain dispersed after a get-together, also an exhibition, sort of vernissage but not really, that took place in 2019.
I am happy now when I think of that crowd, that space.
it was a beginning, a question asked to you, yes, you.
maybe you were there.
maybe we shared bread.
maybe you helped me understand...
essentially it was deconstruction, Guy helped with that tremendously (he has remained in my head ever since).
sculpting with humans!
what a thought..
because when we talk about space we mean present, past or future.
we mean time, and energy.
we are all here forever (2019).
I like to think that all this work is essentialy energy exchange.
Do you follow?
It's labour, it's an investigation of being, as we have been, we are and we will be.
we are all here forever
I want to tell the whole world about it but the minute I open my mouth it becomes something else. there is no place here for a straight answer.
the world is a theatre play
but it's when life becomes a duty you lose
yourself in the game
horizon no longer visible
in order to be born again.
To Be is to Be a Value of a Variable
You are not ever
at any moment present
time is spacious
no lines, no chronology, you’re only a value of a process,
a non-constant particle of a spinning world
Think of how you’re body is now part of a chair, and the chair extends to the floor and everything is just ungraspable,
yet one, a whole that never ends
Hidden in a place that everyone knows.
Only for the sun to remind you of
The days passing
Light guides the liquids you consume.
Your mind - …. - tries to combat the desires of your heart
Your mind – slightly occupied
But it feels however
That reason and
Fail to dictate movement through those familiar corridors of safety.
Those corridors become the extensions of yourself
Your body - no longer externally confirmed – spills out;
To the needs and alerts of your soul.
Being in Solidarity.
Solidarity with your thoughts, those of others; the intensions of air and hunger.
You grieve for the bodies you never became accustomed with;
For the moments that were never there;
For yourself as you have lived – cried, laughed, experienced….
But Feel It.
Feel the change unfolding. Its brutal, uncompromised, heart-breaking and sudden
As it will always be.
Dig out the suppressed craving and matching solutions.
For feelings are now your teachers
As they always should’ve been
As they forever will be
There to embrace you
And kiss you
Goodnight. (when the sun sets).
WE ARE ALL HERE FOREVER
I’ll cut my tongue and plant it in the ground. I’ll talk to witches, bread-makers and fishes. I’ll be your mystic, your mother and your worst enemy. We all must die in order to live again.
You die as the spectator, beholder, stranger, taker, human, conscious critter. Your death is linguistic, accompanied by the extinction of species, progress, avocado trees and humanism. You’re invited to the land of sin where sins are the obvious choice. Land of inaccuracy, mistake, trouble, and non-sense. A cosmos of struggle.
Envision thoughts as floating blocks of mass in your mind and your mind as a physical space of encounter. Feelings are the building blocks – escaping human structures they manifest themselves in space. When such space is denied they accumulate and form a tumour – like chewed gum scraped off from under the desk. We’ve grew accustomed to the premature spitting out - when the gum is not yet fully chewed but you throw it away anyway. Too impatient to wait for it to become hard. You should die with that hardened rock in your mouth. Like the coral taken out of the water.
You exist in an unfamiliar environment, the navigating tools left in a box in the attic. Listen. Listen. Listen to the stories of your grandparents, trees, roommates and vegetable vendors. Believe in myths, not facts. Believe in yourself as an atom in the universe. I’ve chosen a language that escapes words; escapes national boundaries and generational discourse. I’m here to respect the paper I draw on, the space I invade, the plants I nourish. I’m here for you. In the present, past, future.
We are all here forever.
You must have licked it as a child.
When she was a child they told her she was born guilty. They bathed her in water which they saw as holly, as if to make sure that she will turn out the way they did.
Days, hours, years were never part of her vocabulary. The only indication of time was Night and Day. But those too merge together at times, as she exists forever embraced by the insides of her room. The environment forming an extension of her body. After all, we are not a collection of individuals, but a macro-organism living as an ecosystem. We are completely outside of ourselves, and the world is completely inside us. But for I. there is a world gone – reality she decided not to be a part of as it tried to supress her, form her in ways she didn’t find comfortable. Now, only flat surfaces make for the residue of that lost world. The rest lives on, they cannot see her but she is watching all the time. We are watching all the time. We are watching.
The liquid chapter
She, that is I., at times felt like she was growing similar to her fishes, growing scales, breathing bubbles, silently observing whatever happens, as much as what doesn’t happen. She would occasionally whisper to those who resembled her, but they would only hear those who shout. When I. shouts only butterflies and honey-coloured wasps fly out. She knows. She knows that life is cosmic energy, simultaneously empty chaos and absolute speed or movement. It is always too much for the specific slab of enfleshed existence that single subjects actualise. ‘Shout ahead’ she thought. For all of them it’s too much. They all ask themselves: ‘What if I go back to sleep for a while and just forget all this nonsense?’ ‘How nice would that be’ they think. The difference between them and I. is that she actually did go to sleep for a while. Sleep pointed the way to the unknown and mysterious nourishment she so longed for.
She looked away. No more water should be used today. She was thirsty; thirstier than she’s ever been. But she had to stop. Otherwise the fishes would die. They’d be reborn again but … she didn’t feel like letting go of these ones yet. All birth is change, and all change is birth. She felt like a potato bag, living that potato life.
Birds appear and vanish, and no one is there to interpret their flight.
The sprouting chapter
She didn’t remember being cared for, ever, but she was also aware that her memory had gaps. At times she remembered being a bird, a rock, but also seeing floating matter, sparkling mass, surrounding her, and fire, many fires, but not like the ones a lighter makes, it was real heat in mass, pouring out of giant holes, encompassing and beautiful. Someone once said that it is no good that a man is alone; that a man needs a partner, a helper, as it was described. I. never had a partner nor a helper. But she also never really was alone. She came from a land where the sunsets are longer, the dawns less sudden, and sentences are often left unfinished from doubt as to how best to end them.
That morning she was just lying there, somewhere between sleep, thought and fishing. For a moment it seemed like she woke up in a different body, like G. once did. But it was the sweat, and the smell of dirt, the dirt building up next to her that gave such impression. She glanced at her nails realising she fell asleep with dirt stuck under them. I.’s body oozed significant amounts of water during her sleep, she got worried it might have dripped all the way under her bedding and seeped through her papers, the ever-growing compilation of notes, journals, magazines, books that she’s gathered and she continues to gather for gathering is what she does and will always do. But it didn’t.
The world, in many ways is a compilation. She has realised that early on, when, just born, she was asked to pick a side, chose one story when two were offered. She didn’t remember making a choice, perhaps she did to some extent but mostly she’s just been trying to understand, to grasp, to chew on what has been made clear to her. Since then she’s been trying to write her own story. The writer’s impulse to draw connections, identify patterns, establish syllogisms—what cognitive psychologists call “the enormous complexity, and idiosyncrasy, of human minds, the detailed contents of which are largely unknown even to the individual concerned”—seems irrepressible, as if our neurons force us to make sense of all things, all the time. Like the bird-reading seers of ancient Greece, we cannot help ourselves.
The working chapter
She got up, and lifted up one of the fabric walls that made up the shape and limits of her room. While letting in some fresh air she’s realised how hungry she was. Hungry for work, some good work, dough work, that which brings satisfaction of making something that travels across mass, across space and boundaries. It’s been long since she’s checked in with her starter.
To make work work I. needed some preparation. After all, she’s just woken up from a long, liquid dream - if she’d pick up the starter in such condition she’d end up with seriously runny dough. She started thinking about dirt, grass and desert and took upon herself the task of sweeping dust. It became a regular practice for her as the dusty horse sitting in the corner would shed a spoonful of dust every sigh and oh man, he did sigh a lot. Slowly, with every sweep and some dry thoughts she came to feel more balanced – her muscles thickened, her sight became sharper, and her digestive enzymes started off some serious processing.
Finished with sweeping, she picked up the starter. It looked hungry but rested, making for an accurate reflection of her state of being. ‘We are going to spend some time together’ she whispered with enthusiasm. ‘We’re going to work and grow and work together.’ And so the feeding has begun.
The sinful chapter
What she did wasn’t designed to last but rather to inevitably make the way to its own demise.
‘Life just lives of life’ she thought biting into an onion. As onions substituted the core of her nutrition she made peace seeing them disappear in her mouth but she couldn’t help wonder what her body does to them on the inside. She wanted to see them broken down, torn apart, all the juices extracted and the solids eaten out by enzymes. So much biting she had to do…it made her remember the image she once encountered of a snake swallowing a whole mouse, the mouse’s movement slowly dying out encapsulated by the marvellous, erotic body of the reptile. She once tried swallowing a whole onion, trying to embody her inner snake but it gave her a funny burning feeling in the oesophagus that she didn’t dare to experience again. When she was younger, living in the flat world she was told never to trust a serpent. But she didn’t trust the one who told her so and made up her own mind. ‘Life just lives of life.’
The birds are fishing.
You must have licked it as a child. You know the taste of things.
(essentially) My work consists of
PERPETUAL TRANSACTIONS WITH THE SUBJECTIVITY OF OTHERS
PERPECTUAL TRANSACTIONS WITH THE SUBJECTIVITY OF OTHERS
PERPETUAL TRANSACTIONS WITH THE SUBJECTIVITY OF OTHERS