to see the inside
of your story
or the other one,
you have to open them.
I have covered two paper bowls (with text from a found book in Spanish) with concrete. One of them has a bronze varnish on the outside.
They remind me of fruit. Stone fruit, with a hard skin. But when you cut the fruit open, you find no stone inside.
I speak my life
As if it was written
On onion skins
Hoping for the one
Who listens sharply
Like a kitchen knife
And stays despite the tears
Until we get to the core.
“This is it: I have no language for reality. … how could one prove who one is in reality? I can’t. Do I even know myself who I am? This is the frightening experience of this period of remand: I have no language for my reality.” A passage from Max Frisch’s novel “I am not Stiller” (in my own translation). I have replaced the preceding pages with a concrete block.
Language is like cement, a story can be like concrete. Maybe that is so, because such a shape of story touches us deeply. It transmits an experience across the limits of the pronounceable.
Shopping receipts can be condensed to reveal the personality type of the consumer. This sentence could be from a marketing text book. With my little loom I did as market researchers do. I worked through a bunch of my own receipts, condensed and connected them and indeed, the patterns that emerged say a lot about me. Within the limits of this technique, of course.
You can see more of my shopping patterns over at behance .