









Other designs from the art project " Apocalypse, "made with ballpoint pen, black ink on sheets of paper cm14x10 Newsprint, colored with materials from everyday life ...
But it is inevitable that by looking at the dark figures emerge provenienti dal passato? Questo è il buio di un altro paese, sono le tenebre di Chicago che gravano sul lago Michigan, allora cosa ci fanno tutti questi fantasmi di gente che sostiene di essere ancora viva? Perché non le coste brillanti, frastagliate e sbriciolate della Groenlandia vista dal cockpit dell’aereo? Bianche e pure, un biancore che non sa di spettri, di ombre viventi, ma di infinito. L’aereo sembra immobile e il mondo gli gira sotto, un’attrazione del luna park. “Stiamo volando più bassi a causa di un problema di pressurizzazione e il cielo così terso capita di rado.” Il mare sbocconcella lastre di ghiaccio e le sparpaglia nella sua vastità. La Groenlandia si allontana. E tornano appearances. In particular, printed in the cold rain and dark, a face that mourning does not have dragged on. He has pale lips as befits an apparition. They move, says something, but who has more desire to listen to his lies?
"Go down the stairs, there is a tunnel that leads directly to the lakefront." At one o'clock at night, Greenland deceived by the ghost, and mixes of the list looking for: breakfast of pancakes, a jar of crunchy peanut butter from Whole Foods, walk between the skyscrapers up to eat the cartilage of the knee, see the "Grande Jatte" "Nighthawks" e "American Gothic" all’Art Institute… il cuore salta in gola all’idea di trovarli insieme, come quella volta della "Madonna del Prato" di Raffaello al Kunsthistorisches Museum di Vienna, con le lacrime agli occhi nell’assistere a tanta luce e tanto colore raccolti nello spazio di un quadro, qualcosa che la natura non sarebbe mai stata capace di fare. La pioggia penetra gelata nelle maglie del berretto di lana. Al ristorante giapponese una chiamata, numero sconosciuto; una voce femminile chiede timidamente se nome e cognome corrispondono. “Sì, sono io. Sono a Chicago.” “Ah, è per la carta di credito, autorizziamo la spesa?” “Certo. Chiamate per importi del genere?” "A check, you never know. It is outside its usual area of \u200b\u200buse ... "
Why continue to go back with your thoughts? What's wrong with this walk alone? Racing clouds in the sky that fade to black. Ontario Street is deserted, ladders, and the underpass lit by neon lights. The sound of steps and on the night traffic on Lake Shore Drive, with the cars lapping the lake while he is calm. A hooded figure on the opposite side. A student in hood with shoulder strap. Shakes the rain from a tuft of hair coming out of the hood. What do you do in these cases, we must healthy? Not this time: he continues looking straight ahead.
Not the right time to do jogging along the lake. The park is swept by gusts of rain that has now become as thin as mist. Then suddenly the bronze statue of a man sitting on a chair in bronze. The lake absorbs any thought, a mock beach that stretches endlessly, sucking the darkness and make peace. Drowns the ghosts in the excitement of a vast, silent private show.
Buses and taxis are sleeping whales near Navy Pier at the entrance to the childen's Museum. The goal is to the extreme limit to the Shakespeare Theater. The lights of the rides and the great wheel of crystal light shine in gloomy expectation of all those who will not be tonight. An appointment is rejected the prelude of abandonment, to places and people.
Lot What would you do in a similar situation? Arriving at the end of the pier into water. Instead it reveals behind the profile of jeweled Chicago: solid geometry of lights that climb to the heights of the Sears Tower, reflections of gold and silver, and then bright yellow and ocher light muted, blue and red. The white of the office windows paths from the round of cleaning, the garlands of traffic ...
The return on the opposite side, where the ferry docked sleep in a row along the pier and bicycles for rent imitate them in sheds. The smell of animal fat out of the door of a restaurant as a waitress pulls out a can full.
Then, along the Illinois Street, a man in his car parked outside a club, bronze while talking on the phone. Want to eat a banana and a detour to the supermarket the night before returning to the hotel.
No photos, please , the photo image that still must remain free to move nella testa. La foto va bene solo per chi non c’era.
timing 14 novembre 2010
È vicino alle poste centrali. Markus ha descritto per tutto il percorso i pregi dell’influenza tedesca sulla Lituania. Davanti a una strada che rompe maestosa e vagamente inutile il groviglio delle stradine dell’ex ghetto ebraico dice con enfasi “Questa l’hanno fatta i tedeschi!” Orgoglio che forse ha origine nella controversa spartizione tra nazisti e sovietici with the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, under which the Lithuanians found themselves assigned to the iron regime of Soviet collectivization of property and, perhaps in contrast to rebel against the expropriation of individual goods and the eradication of their traditions systematically operated by the Soviets, sympathized for the Germans. At the wrong time.
"But where are the Jews of Vilnius?"
"In 1941 they were rounded up and brought up in one of the hills near 70,000 and killed on the spot immediately to machine guns . Her laugh has the rhythm of a hiccup. Despite the embarrassment, it sounds as if the immediate left of conviction and execution were a sign of civilization.
The entrance to the Circle of writers would indicate the interior: it is anonymous, like many a door, edged finish. Behind the door, dark hall, opens up a wooden staircase that is lost in a dark upstairs reported at one point only by the red glare of the shabby runner. The wood is brown scales, as well as the handrail in some places has lost the polishing force to be rubbed out of the hands acid (tannin tanned from cigarettes and cigars) writers. The lobby is dominated by a massive gallery, with railings by straight columns, which surrounds it and the ceiling is a rich chest adorned with stucco silver or gold, with stylized floral motifs. The glance is the austere magnificence of the traditional and exclusive British club reserved for wealthy people looking for seclusion. Then the cracks start to emerge.
The paint is peeling on the walls, exploded, torn from within. The Guardian, enclosed by a railing next to the entrance of wood, sits on an old chair smashed survived the destruction of an aircraft dell'Aeroflot (or maybe just like a plane seat). She looks typical of local women who have passed middle age: the face has been masculinized. Just make a comparison with the younger: the age, physical features seem to move away from the center of the face with the same determined slowness of continental drift. It prefigures the coming collapse of the expression. His shoulders high and wide to support a swimmer shapeless dress that falls to the lead. It looks like a cabinet lined with fabric with a hint of a mustache. Whoever asks the toilet, grabs him by the elbow and pushes him toward a staircase that descends into darkness introduced by watchful sentries, brooms, sticks, buckets and cleaning products. Responds to requests with abrupt gestures, waking from a busy intersection in the hour point and sending the other person in the right direction as if to invite a machine not to interfere.
roam In the bathroom copper pipes broken up a wall that is a geography of broken tiles. The light is weak, yellow. Everything is broken, disconnected, the floor is crisscrossed by cracks. Not to be too obvious a metaphor for the decay left open to visitors. They despise the Russians and civilization collectivized Soviet Union while continuing to use its legacy. Cleaning rags and ran aground in the furrows: piss here in the middle is the act of liberating survived a catastrophe.
The old door of the room the manager of the club on the ground floor is painted wood, studded with frames, which has been applied in recent times, a lock of white plastic fortune. Inside the trunk of some kind or character of the local culture Soviet jumped on a table. Everything comes down to pieces, furniture and desks (and old computers) are positioned as if they were in a warehouse. It is a place that has gone beyond the most vulgar parody to reach the sublime. On a low table with a box of dark chocolates, filled with a perfectly smooth surface, their appearance is an invitation bronze. No one sells them but try them is inevitable. Are dangerously good, seem to be the key to access an earlier era, when everything was dark, shiny and safe, the product of an idea without a smudge and uncertainties. An idea that pierced every weakness.