Myself, six images, five sounds, a chaise lounge. Here, you die, there, you fall in love, and here, you marvel. I sit, looking ahead, allowing myself for a moment to drift. I feel like telling the story of a great family’s downfall — an entirely ordinary one, though it’s a tale of something big. But not just yet, because for now, there’s no one here. For now, it’s just me in the room I inherited from my grandmother.
I lie down, stretch out my legs, let my arms hang loose, and stare at the ceiling. Artificial light is everywhere, I have no idea what time it is. I remember when there used to be two windows here. Now, they are hidden behind paintings gathered over generations. Each one is bursting with stories and anecdotes. Some don’t even bother to keep quiet, whispering from time to time. Pieces of conversations, trees rustling, silence, birds outside the window. The paintings have absorbed it all, and now they remind me of their presence, releasing sounds that move around the room like a phantom. They are here with me, I try to follow them. The sounds multiply, slip away, refusing to fully let you in, to betray all those stories. Big memories of a great family.
Curiosity led me to this room. Inherited, half-imagined, a place where I can’t even look out the window to check the time. I’ve lost touch with the world outside. I trusted the paintings. I hoped they would let me know when it was near. Let me know so we could say our goodbyes in time. I wait, and I feel terribly tired.
It’s time to begin the story. Or maybe not. Perhaps it’s better to wait, cross one leg over the other, then the other way around, straighten up, sigh. But I’ve lost the urge. I’ll only tell the ending. This is the first time I face it aloud. All because of that one intrusive thought about the end. How attractive emptiness seems, the prospect of starting everything once again. Before I do it, I must give it all away to someone. And yet, I’m still alone here. I imagine the most perfect downfall and the people to whom I will pass it.
I dream of getting lost, of not knowing what to think, of finding myself in a room filled with foreign objects and stories. Not recognizing them. Not knowing them and not fearing an encounter with myself — past, future, inherited version… And again, that relentless sound. They’re only imagined people, right?
That’s why there’s no point in saying too much. Just remember one thing — I am the last of my line, and I am ending it, just like that.
źródło: https://turnus.fun/exhibition/too-many-worries-of-made-up-people
