You look over my shoulder, towards the door, out the window, as if you are waiting for something. I try to turn my head but, like in a dream, my body responds with firm immobility. I look at your face instead. I don’t know how to express my great wonder. I would like to taste your life. Your dreams, regrets, decisions. I want you to know I am thinking about you. I just want to merge into the wall, listen to your presence, embalm your thoughts, preserve your memories.
I like when you are folding. The folded laundry seems to have the same construction as a column. Connecting the floor with the ceiling keeps the structure of the room secure. You are the unaware architect, who never really recognizes consequences of its own creation.
There are fragments of you that I see. Your form is never complete. Neither open nor closed. Where the vertical is struggling with the horizontal. Identity which refuses to be discovered. But for me you are the most beautiful when you hesitate. When you are touched by the presence of common objects. When you extract from the shadow of their beautiful absence. Shadows of objects suspended between commodity and memory. They cannot serve any work but they refuse to leave. They grow like hair out by night on the wall. Shadows carry their experience of one space to another. They create new space by confronting it with their own unrealistic proportions and deformations. An illusion of reconstructed reality evokes ambiguity. I don’t know if I see or just want to see. Insignificance of our memory doesn’t agree with objective perception. I would like to reconstruct your history from memories of your surrounding objects. To translate their reflections into a visual diary.
I enjoy a sense of intimacy digesting silence in this room. The enclosed environment allows unusual affairs to happen. You treat each object instinctively, but you seem to know very well. I am attracted by your limitations, repetition of your movement, the way you assemble objects in space. You offer them alternative ways of existence by displacing them from their common context. Their solid bodies contradict the softness of your own. In this long term relationship roles are not defined. Vulnerability of dialogue complements the strength of spoken words.
Your unfinished ironing explains your instability. Nothing can ever happen twice, so your improvising has to be correct. There have to be the plates even without appetite. You make the rules here. You are holding the beginning. Understanding of time and space evolves. You have challenged my perception of everyday life.
The field of irons allows you in. Only you may enter. You approve their mute presence without complaints. The big, staring mass doesn’t seem to have any interest in you. Despite their stillness you feel their aware company. You don’t look at them, but you know that something is going on, down there, next to your feet. They lean on you and you let yourself to lean back on them. This universe includes you, where without gravity your desire for protection crashes the earth. However you understand they don’t provide shelter. This picture was taken some time ago.
You walk away, through the kitchen, crossing the wall line. At this distance you seem like a mirage. Your figure folds into the light. The distorted image transforms into a flat projection of my crumbled dream.
I wish you were here…

04.06.2007