I, I and I
I want to name things. I am still shy and filter my thoughts through a control function. In my last entry, I didn't care if I was consciously or politically correct. So far, everything in me has resisted rereading the text to find out whether what I wrote corresponds to what I wanted to say. Of course, writing on top of each other always requires two or more perspectives. I can only provide mine. That is a premise that won't change unless others contribute to a change. Sure, I'd like others to post text here, but so far the opportunity has not arisen.
Whatever my concern, I want to allow myself to write about things that my inner voice is holding me back from - even disregarding spelling and grammar, or lets say overcome them and play linguistically. No, that doesn't work at all, what should the others think of me. They may think that I am crazy or stupid if I write this and they will stop communicating with me. They will exclude me from their community and I will never have a chance to be socially recognized. Nobody will be ever interested. Something like that. I promise myself that I will enjoy writing more if I ignore the others and their voices in my head (and whether they really think the way I assume has not even been proven), because then there will no longer be anything that stops me. Freedom total. But still there are things that hold me back. The question of whether it makes sense to write this or that has always preoccupied me - apart from what others might could think. If it works, I suddenly give myself a jerk and say to myself, yes, I need that. Well worth the time I spend doing it. You see, it's not just a psychological question, it's an economic one too. Before I sit down at the laptop, I ask myself if there isn't something more important to do. And then comes the weighing up of what is more important at that very moment. And no matter what it is, the decision alone then is decisive.
It will be a while before I find my daily rhythm. Now, a few days at home in Gambia, everyday life catches up with me again instantly. Despite the increasing pain in my wrists, I can't help but grab my broom without delay. He did his best, which means the necessities, but surprising me with extraordinary things is not his thing. He picked me up from the airport, which I was very happy about. It's not that I'm not thankful for what he's doing. But that I also do something does not seem to be an issue. He's worked on a building site a couple of times, which he didn't like at all, but at least he made his own money. There's no point in traveling for a month and then going back and start making blocks again, which is his response to my suggestion that we go overseas together. The money I give him isn't actually money, which means he doesn't know why he's getting it. Although I always declare that he deserves it because I take it for granted that I will share it with him. However, another common answer from him is why he should bother with something that doesn't belong to him. In other words, he doesn't care about my things. Then I feel like everything I have is actually worthless. It sounds like I'm not the right one. We're examining the possibilities of an apprenticeship. The American University I can't afford. In the five years that we have now lived and worked together, I have not been able to get him excited about art. Sure, earning money with it is almost a matter of luck and he must have felt it right away. He found enthusiasm in the noble-looking things I brought with me, but art that also reflects the unpleasant sides of life does not convince him. He is attracted to wealth. Of course, over the years he has realized that my wealth is not what he dreamed of. He wants his very own wealth that would probably look different. I try to bring him closer to spiritual wealth and the benefit of philosophy. But he distrusts it. He needs to move forward, especially financially. I give him what I can. In any case, he doesn't live on the smell of an oily rag. But it's not what he wants. Actually, I don't understand what he wants. I've neglected a lot of things, so now I mainly focus on my own concerns. At least I can maintain my own health. Today he is at the funeral of a friend who was stabbed to death last Sunday night. I know his friend. We went out together several times. But he doesn't talk to me about it like it is not my concern.
Art Space Work of the Month
Hyan Sook Song - Farewell, 1983, lithography, 42.5x47.4cm
Looks like I'm on summer break. I've been in Hamburg for over a week. That's why I can't publish Artspace's Work of the month until I'm back in Gambia. The main reason I visit is my parents, but I am also happy to see my sister and my friends. In fact, I last saw my father two years ago. At that time he took me to the taxi early in the morning on the day of my departure, they still lived in an apartment of their own, not within a facility. Now they live in a senior citizens' facility and I in a hotel. The years before I stayed with them. I feel with both of them. Since his last stay at the hospital my father is dependent on care that was taken over by my mother. But now she needs help. There are nurses in the house who can do it. Fortunately, because she is overwhelmed with it. She's gotten very small and thin and I wonder how she even manages her own life. My father looks strangely tall, which is probably due to the water. Accordingly, he takes drainage tablets. He hardly hears anything except sometimes. Then I can exchange a few words with him. Yes, it is very sad to see them like this. And they suffer a lot from the situation. He can barely move because he is always in great pain while she is bound to him and constrained. I hope that with the support of the caregivers, their lives will be more bearable. The first time I saw them, I was horrified. Now that I've seen them every day, I have to accept that their life has changed. Their apartment at the Rosenhof is beautiful though.
photo taken at the exhibition Hey, Hamburg, do you know Duala Manga Bell?, MARRK