I don’t really write much stuff on the computer but I tried to photograph what I wrote a couple of days ago so I would just post it all here but it was not that readable really. So, now I will just write it all again here.
I have just read about some collection of poems which was written, created and destroyed within 24 hours. Apart from the author, there were two people that knew this collection ever existed. At the moment none of these people’s impressions of these poems will be true really. But, there is always something true in the things you can imagine.(see: 1)
but this is not what I wanted to say
there is always something about writing a sentence and deleting it straightaway. I often write a sentence and then delete it, I often can draw a picture and can just destroy it, it can be something unbereable to say it/writeit/draw it. I cannot describe it really, I cannot describe that feeling that makes it all so hard sometimes.
I remember destroying some drawings in summer 2010, I really felt like making them, like I wanted to get rid of all the bad stuff that was then inside me. I had a bit of a difficult time then. I was at my friend’s studio, in a different country. I had some time and I was on my own. Only me and my friend knew that I made these drawings, but there was only me who saw them. Now I have just read the story about that poet and the works that he destroyed and created within one day.
I once read a story based on a real story of buying someone’s photographs and documents and letters and other personal items on a flea market. (see: 2) The person who bought all that stuff bought a suitcase with everything that particular person once owned. The owner of all these documents, correspondence and other things died and all his possesions were sold at the flea market. The man who bought all that tried later to re-create that man’s story out from what he left and what was then for sale. I told this story to someone that I to a flea maket with, on a Sunday in November in the moment when we noticed that on the stall with postcards and collectibles, there were someone’s ID cards for sale too. There were some press accreditations/passes, some documents that looked like medical records and some other documents in foreign languages. Swedish or Norwegian, with passport-sized photographs pasted or stapled onto them. I then thought about the photographs and ID cards and passes that we used to find with my housemates while we used to live in Stockwell and Brixton. We used to find them on the buses, trains and on the pavements mostly. Then, On the same evening, on the same Sunday on that day that we went to a flea market, I saw a film that was made after a box was found, with photographs, tapes and letters, that belonged to a family that lived their hermetic life, making works that, like them, had never been discovered, waiting to be seen. (see: 3) In the box, there was also an interview they did with themselves, so, if found later, wold make someone get to know more about their life. It had never been seen or discovered or admired as the intended it to be. Never. It all had been thrown away as cleared with all the junk from the house where that family stayed for most of their life and then died unnoticed. Nobody ever discovered then despite all their effort on which they spent all their lives and then a film was made about it.
- Tomasz Pułka, Slim Kwdt patrzy na ruiny, published at Wakat, no 1-2 (16-17) 2012, and here: http://sdk.pl/wakat/nr17/TomaszPulka.html
- From an article published at Lampa, in 2009 0r 2010 or maybe 2010. I’ve lost most of these magazine when I was moving houses.
- Sergio Oksman, A story for the Modlins, 2012, https://vimeo.com/44924580 , http://www.sergiooksman.com/Requiem_eng.htm