I attempted to address the theme of memory. While thinking about the approach to be taken in addressing this theme, I encountered a difficulty; almost every memory that I could draw on frustratingly, but unsurprisingly, belonged to my childhood. The space of these memories, the setting in which they appeared to had taken place, varied upon each investigation, a metamorphosis that carried on until there was no certainty whether the memory had actually ever taken place or not. This led me to think about the space of my current memories, and the problematic nature of its temporality. Why is it that memory loses its temporal function as I age, why is there no going back after childhood has passed, and more importantly, why do I disappear from my current space of memory? So I focused on this last question, and took photographs of the scenes that fascinated me around my neighborhood: the scenes I passed nearly every day, but never noticed them in the space of my daily life. In these images of signs, people, public hangouts, I became aware of my engagement with the surrounding space. An engagement that often becomes so ordinary that it dissolves one of its participants. It is, therefore, this familiar space that conceals my role in my own memories. A billboard for a cemetery promises me a space in the future, providing of course that I have the funds. This billboard commands me to rest assured until 'then'. Life is, therefore, reversed. However, as trying as it may be, I want myself as well as the viewer, to notice the possibility of another space, a void that cannot be occupied by signs and buildings. Perhaps in the space of this void, often unnoticed in the center of my life, I could be propelled to follow my own desire, something that I could recall in future memories.
"What a beautiful infallible crutch you have provided, it allows you to forget about the nature of memory."
"Our conversation was always limited, wasn't it? I followed how often you stared into your cup, and counted every second closer to suicide. The last grain of sand never fell, lucky for us."
"I counted the footsteps home, mine, yours and others. One by one. I don't know what will happen in the spring?"
"Perhaps nothing remains?"
"My passive sigh of relief is frozen in the February air, is it probable the mirror you frequent will crack with frustration relieving me for good? Do you know this devours you? You are not a man and barely a woman."
I pretend to smoke in an attempt to bide time, to decipher the iconography before me, and just as strongly, avoid.
"There is no ending, there is no answer for you to unfold."
No comments:
Post a Comment