One image of the series of self-portraits with limited range of expression is part of Nasty Women Everywhere, an online exhibiton for women’s rights that is running to 26th of February.
the text translates
is already coming to
wards you. Have you come
to wonder? towards won-
dering. oh. uh. oh. going towards
all wonders at this
time of day. here, wondering comes t-
owards you. oh! uh! oh!
you! Are you moving towards
wondering? oh! you! here!
the wondering is al-
ways coming towards you here
right now. Are you coming
oh! you! here is the spa-
ce where you both meet:
you + wondering.
THIS PIECE IS TO MAKE YOU SEE THAT WORDS
ARE NOT LIGHT ENOUGH. SPACE IS TRANSPARE
NT. WORDS ARE NOT. IGNORE MY WRITING, SEE
THE SPACE BETWEEN. SEE? (AND MAYBE ADMIT
BLOCKING LIGHT HAS BEAUTY, TOO.) WOR
DS ARE BLOCKING THE LIGHT. WORDS DO
NOT SHINE ON THEIR OWN. WORDS ARE NOT
NEVER CLEAR ENOUGH. WORDS ARE NOT →
BRIGHT ENOUGH. IGNORE THESE LINES AND
LET THE SPACE SPEAK TO YOU DIRECTLY.
THERE IS NO OTHER CONTENT. ENJOY THE
FREE SPACE. WORDS ARE NOT SPACIOUS
ENOUGH. SEE? WORDS GET IN THE WAY. YOU
HAD TO SEE THIS…. YOU HAVE
TO SEE THIS FOR YOURSELF. (WORDS ARE O.K.)
WORDS ARE NOT LIGHT ENOUGH.
WORDS ARE NOT TRANSPARENT ENOUGH.
THEY BLOCK THE LIGHT (TO AN EXTENT). THESE WOR
DS ARE NOT BRIGHT ENOUGH TO SHINE ON THEIR OWN.
BUT THEY HAVE THE POWER TO SHAPE THE SPACE (TO AN
EXTENT). YET, THE SPACE REMAINS FREE FROM CONTENT.
IGNORE THE WORDS AND READ THE ← → do you see?
SPACE INSTEAD. WORDS ARE NOT SPACIOUS ENOUGH.
CAN YOU SEE THE FREEDOM IN THE SPACE AROUND THE
LETTERS? AND THE LIGHT? THIS IS THE COMPLETE CONTENT.
WORDS ARE NOT CLEAR. words are not transparent enough.
LETTERS ARE TOO LIMITED AND TOO DENSE TO TRAN
read at all.
All there is
to realize is
in the space
words. AT THE
EDGE OF THE
THE PAINT ENDS.
THIS IS WHERE
SHINE IF YOU
words are not light enough. too heavy.
BUT SOMETIMES THEY CAST BEAUTI
FUL SHADOWS. WORDS ARE NOT TRA
NSPARENT ENOUGH. IT IS THE SPA
CE BETWEEN THE LETTERS THAT
TRANSMITS THE LIGHT. DO YOU SEE
THIS IS THE COMPLETE CONTENT:
FOLLOW THE WORDS ONLY AS FAR AS
THE BLACK PAINT GOES. THEN ENTER
THE SPACE BETWEEN THE WORDS.
THE FREE, TRANSPARENT SPACE
THAT DOES NOT BLOCK THE LIGHT. THIS
IS WHERE WE MEET. AT THE EDGE OF THE BLACK PAINT. WHERE THE LIGHT PASSES.
Wikipedia: A meme (/ˈmiːm/ meem) is “an idea, behavior, or style that spreads from person to person within a culture”. A meme acts as a unit for carrying cultural ideas, symbols, or practices that can be transmitted from one mind to another through writing, speech, gestures, rituals, or other imitable phenomena with a mimicked theme. Supporters of the concept regard memes as cultural analogues to genes in that they self-replicate, mutate, and respond to selective pressures.
My story and yours
still separate, frozen
are starting to melt:
Letters flow away,
sentences gather in puddles…
Our story, one slow current,
trickles into new patterns,
seeps into the ground or evaporates
save for a bit of dust,
and falls down as rain, somewhere.
For the series of photographs “story, written on ice” I wrote on a bloc of ice with Indian ink. I chose two different fragments of German text, one from a family saga by John von Düffel, whose writing usually has to do with water. The other line is from a poem which is better known as the song “The miller’s joy is wandering”. Here are the translations:
Impossible to say, how often I thought of these rivers, how often I dreamt of them, how many nights I was drawn to them, when I was passing through sleeping towns, dry, riverless towns, on the search for water, on the search for the movement of water,(…). My translation from: John von Düffel “Vom Wasser” (On water).
(house 1, in the picture above the second house from right, translated from German).
walls from words and windows from soft words and doors from stories and walls from words and windows from soft words and roofs from half sentences and stairs from laughter only the light is simply here. And you are here. I am here.
In between walls from words, windows from soft words, doors from stories and unspoken cellar rooms and you are here with me. We talk walls to each other.
In between light falls through walls from words and roofs from half sentences and stairs from laughter, windows from soft, thin words, doors from stories. You hear here. Here.
And roofs from half sentences and walls from words and everything can fall apart if we don’t catch a new word, but light is simply here. And you are here and I am here and doors from stories, if you believe them. Stairs from laughter, cellar rooms from unspoken words. If you believe them. If you believe words, you are here with me.
(house 4, the smallest one, with English words)
Living inside stories, written on the walls oft he world that has your name on it. Telling you where your limits are. Spelling your name.
Living inside stories. Telling you: You are here. The limits of your name echo from the walls. The story about limits.
Living inside stories written on the walls of your name. If you believe in limits. If you believe in stories, how much room does your name need. If you believe.
Living inside stories, as if they were your skin.
Old stories. At first stacked up like a tower, then rolled aside. After a while I could see them or at least imagine to see them everywhere: next to the entrance, in the kitchen, on a bridge or leaning on the fence of a playground.
for additional pictures click here.