ink doodles
I bought myself a watercolor sketchbook. I am trying to draw without thinking, with mixed results.
{ Monthly Archives }
March 2010
as they were, as they are
And there are the chimneys, with their white smoke drifting upwards in slow motion. If the wind blows in the right direction the white column of smoke floats horizontally behind the small houses I can see from the studio. It is night and there is light in one of windows in the house at the edge of the hill. The image is blurry and the quality poor, but I know it is there, I can just make out the light changing. But even here and now, it feels that there is no time nor place. There is no language, no context. All is left is image. I look for synonyms and the words lead me back to the illusion. The house and the smoke are remote, forever unreachable there and then, as they were, as they are, even in the image. Something has been removed, stripped, separated and yet; in its reverberation it gains a new more ambiguous sense of meaning.
blinding
I am listening to Florence and the Machine, my favourites of their songs are without doubt Cosmic Love and Blinding, I love the drums…
Yesterday the light was very intense and bright, and the sun was warming. Walked up to the fortress where the view was beautiful. There is a small ice skating rink nearby where a single black figure was trying his best. I will definitely go back there with the tripod.
taken down
I got a bit of a cold today. Weather is lovely out there but I will stay in studio, keep warm and do a bit of writing. I took the exhibition down this morning. It is all gone now. It feels good but a bit sad too. I can’t believe February is already past. While I was at the gallery flicking through their lovely book shop, I was looking at a book on homecoming, and a piece of text in it was talking about first memories. It got me thinking about my first memory, or more specifically about my first image-memory. It got me thinking about distance and colors. My first school in Galicia, I think that is where my first memory that I can recall as truly mine comes from. Other memories feel constructed from language or photographs. But these couple of images I know they only come from my own lived moment. I want to write about it.
On a different note, some photos from my show at Babel are in on of the major contemporary art magazines of Norway. Nice. KUNSTforum
