like the tide.
approaching, pulling away,
approaching.
approaching, pulling away,
approaching.
Within the framework of this inflexible situation—after months in and out of involuntary isolation—I began to question my own identity and its fluid behavioral patterns. I had come to crave what was now forbidden—intimacy—and the need distracted and tore at me like a hunger. Like any desperate human, I began a feverish search for what I was looking for. I made it my very own little investigation; to search as deep as I could into the abysses of my own loneliness with the hope that I; sooner or later, inside of it; would be able to hold The Answer in my hands.
During the long research that followed, I surrounded myself with everything that loneliness had to offer; literature, scientific research, forums, art history, stories, confessions, sounds and unsounds; but primarily in the literary and cinematic fictional world; among the fictitious lonely; I found the true cure and enlightenment—my answer, my intimacy.
In front of me stood no one but myself, in the shape of many varied, wide-open figures. This work takes off from a doubt, that will then be transformed and born again as a love letter; a sweet lie in the shape of replica.
In front of me stood no one but myself, in the shape of many varied, wide-open figures. This work takes off from a doubt, that will then be transformed and born again as a love letter; a sweet lie in the shape of replica.
a conversation between rebecka lindmark and johanna ribbe
The odyssey begins in the north, as a speck adrift in the Baltic sea. The "O" then stretches its legs—first far, far south, then east, east, east...
[livet är tumult fladdrande, likt havets vind. jag ömsar skinn. sträcker mina nya, lena lemmar mot det oändliga himlavalv som vilar ovanför.]
prologue: the Greek sage reeks heavenly, with earth’s spine beneath me (as Virginia had said; Orlando had felt it). I stomp mountains at dusk, yellow streets at dawn, read Rimbaud together with the big, old snake in the lavender gardens. nights are high fever, working the dry Spanish mountain. staring all day at an endless sun and also at Paco (not endless, my neighbour).
Harvest came, then I went—to taste the seas, and love; yes love; I fell in love. afterwards I learned how to love, (amongst other things, but that’s another story—or is it?), but first of all I had to fall. I now think that all things both begin and end with falling. His beauty was bursting in earth’s palettes, and his favourite dish; a big spoon of white sugar.
Harvest came, then I went—to taste the seas, and love; yes love; I fell in love. afterwards I learned how to love, (amongst other things, but that’s another story—or is it?), but first of all I had to fall. I now think that all things both begin and end with falling. His beauty was bursting in earth’s palettes, and his favourite dish; a big spoon of white sugar.
