Many things happens in the woods 16th September 2014; visit to Ytre Arna
We followed the mossy steps leading up and away from the asphalt road, ( I remember that you like the word asphalt in Norwegian “asfalt”. When I now look at the word, it makes me think of as = som and to fall “har falt” gravitasjon to a center.) Suddenly the steps seemed to disappear, and we found ourselves standing in amidst the bald and curling leaves of dying rhododendrons, and other rambling roots tangling between our ankles. It looked like there might be some steps again further up. My vision was blinded by the sunlight, but I trusted that it was so, although I could not really see. We made our way through the shrub, watching our footsteps and judging as best we could where the land lay beneath the foliage. We forged a meandering track built by uncertain footsteps; sometimes stumbling, sometimes slipping. At times it seemed as though the path had already been trodden. Other times there was no sign of anyone ever having gone that way before. It was strange to have this sense of wilderness with a house so close by, and also to have these vanishing steps which seemed so purposely to lead into it.
Red bag. Image of two that are being watched of an surveillance camera on T-Central in Stockholm. One of person are caring the backpack that contains x in it. They where speaking about the caring of this time-moment before separating and the knowing that the x will be laying in the earth for 5 years.
I have come to the understanding that there is never truly a direct translation of any word. There is always a mysterious and fluid gap where meaning cannot be mapped and cultural experience cannot be traced, much as the ocean separates one land from another, and the tides constantly alter the surface of the earth. And so it was. I felt as though I could be lost, but this feeling was not a given truth. It was like being subject to an internal blindness, where parts of the whole story had been blotted out.
Caring – I am sure you mean carrying. But carrying is often an act of care. There is a word in Welsh: cariad – it means dearest, or cherished one, the person you care for most. In Norwegian there is a similar word: kjæreste. I think they are connected Words. About language and interpretation. What do the mistakes show us? Cariad/caring/carrying and happen/happens/skjer. Your work, my perception, your perception, my work. These are perceptions revealed in the language we use, and how we use it, and perceptions relating to the work itself, the view that you give me from the artwork. It is like a window into your world of perceptions. I thought that writing would be a way for me to understand other people’s work, and for them to understand it more for themselves. I have discovered it is more than that. It is a way to discover about myself.
“Jeg lever i en verden av andres ord og hele mitt liv er en orientering i denne.” Mikhail Bakhtin.
It was strange to have this sense of wilderness with a house so close by, and also to have these vanishing steps which seemed so purposely to lead into it.
As we reached the top, the steps reappeared. There were just five this time: uneven, cracked and overgrown with moss. We climbed them and found ourselves at an opening. The area was an oval shape, and was surrounded by an iron fence and trees. It felt sheltered. Inside, the grass had been kept. There was a smaller oval shaped section in the centre of the lawn. Here the grass was even shorter, with a narrow, flattened path coming out of either end. I fancied that it represented a womb with the fallopian tubes. I wondered how this had occurred. In the middle, I came to a single black feather. It was glossy and long, with a pointed quill at the end. Just after the feather, two patches of ground were strewn with tufts of fur. I could not tell if it was from the pelt of an animal, or if it came from the seed head of a plant. I bent down to touch it, and discovered it was covered in dew. It looked like it could have come from a malting cat. Perhaps these were the remnants of a vicious tussle between a bird and an animal. I could not be sure.
A white cougar that looked like an alpine wolf appeared. It tried to attack. I was looking down into its dark black and red mouth and pulling its jaws apart. Eventually I heard the crack of bone. That’s how I killed it: by ripping its jaws off.
The pheasant appeared in the garden by some bushes. It only had one eye and no beak. There was a black hole where the beak was. Rubbery bits of skin were hanging off. It looked a bit like latex – like a gas mask without a filter. The missing eye was the same. The other eye was a large glassy oval, fully dilated and black brown.
I heard a dog yelping in pain, and a woman shouting. I looked with alarm towards the noise and saw pools of bright red blood at the bottom of the escalator. Like the red circle. A beautiful black labrador puppy had got its foot caught in one of the grills. Reading this gave me a sound that were coming out loud and also made me nauseous. Me too, even when I think about it now. This is like the involuntary recollection of sensation described by Proust. This terrified me to the point of feeling sick.
To one end of the space there were two trees flanking two stone pillars, like those at a gate. Both the trees’ trunks had split in two. On the one, they intertwined, and on the other they had grown apart. The sun shone a soft and dappled light on the one that embraced itself, while shadow fell across the second. I walked up to the intertwined trunk and felt its smooth and undulating bark, noticing some had peeled away.
I stopped in my tracks at the sight of a thin wire strung between two trees at throat level. I took in a breath of air, cooling and opening the back of my larynx. I was a little alarmed. What was this? Could it be a garrotte? Was it to hinder the path of animals? Traps that makes one aware of the area There were several like this: two thin tree trunks connected by tightly pulled wire. It was screwed into one, and bound around the other. I wondered if it was an initiative for the proper growth of trees. It was as though one tree held the other; the strong supporting the weak. I looked down and saw that it was not two trees, but a single tree attached to a large branch, for there were no roots at the bottom of the smaller trunk.( Her it is a tree but the tree has been uprooted/ broken where their roots are still in the grown or they have decayed away in relation to wind storms and sickness in the trees. Like the psyche; unconscious things, roots buried underground. In childhood maybe something is damaged. Maybe it gets broken by trauma later in life.
I followed the path out, between the two pillars. A bower of parallel trees created a walkway to and from the clearing. Something caught my attention, and I remained in the sunlight. Pale pink origami birds were fluttering in the breeze. They were attached to the branches of the trees. Each one had two eyes drawn onto it in black biro. This reminded me of the moths that have markings of eyes on their wings, as if to ward away other creatures with their stare. Yet the colour was more that of rose petals. I could not imagine these being intended to represent those creatures of the night; circulating in and out of our peripheral vision and casting flickering shadows across the light.
The red circle marks the area where the road divides when you enter the valley. Follow the hill down to the end, where there appears a new path crossway. Choose the way that goes up – not to the right. My work is above this place if you are on the path to the left up. There you can look for piles of material with a circle of unsorted branches bound together. It cannot be seen under.
White desert is undefined space. It could be infinite.