I am thinking about construction, development, dependence and interaction.
A doll.
Wool from a sheep. The wool was sheared. Washed. Transported. Carded. Dyed. Sold. Bought. Storaged.
Paper began as a tree. Shall I write all the steps, roads and inks it took till it got into a book?... Written. Printed. Sold. Bought. Put on a shelf. Found its way into a flea market. Sold. Bought. Storaged. Teared. Sewn. Punched.
Fabric.... imagine please the steps that brought it to my sewing machine and embellisher.
Thread....once more the whole story of it.
A recycled kimono... with its own history.
Face...Drawn. Photoshoped. Printed.
Needles... where does metal begin at? what do I have in my hand? how many lives, stories, miles, insolvencies, bookkeeping records, internationality, globalization can find place in this only doll?
...and now I put everything together, tear it, distort it, cover and uncover it, just to twinge it, punch it, pierce it, stab it, jab and puncture it once more. I cut and add till the doll is a part of me, of what I am. It's delivered and shown after I take and add without obvious sense on all of its surface...
Why do we do this, why do we like this, why do we put together our own little universe? why do other people like it, want it, keep it, give it away, rediscover it, throw it in the garbage, exhibit it, give it to a museum, recycle it?
And there is joy and tears, discovery, serendipity, envy, selflessness, passion, pain, illusion, fear and all the human feelings palette in the process. And most of all oblivion at the end.
And this ragged piece of doll is a philosophical cornerstone that distracts me from finishing my bookkeeping.
Folks, this is a real mad, mad world...
A doll.
Wool from a sheep. The wool was sheared. Washed. Transported. Carded. Dyed. Sold. Bought. Storaged.
Paper began as a tree. Shall I write all the steps, roads and inks it took till it got into a book?... Written. Printed. Sold. Bought. Put on a shelf. Found its way into a flea market. Sold. Bought. Storaged. Teared. Sewn. Punched.
Fabric.... imagine please the steps that brought it to my sewing machine and embellisher.
Thread....once more the whole story of it.
A recycled kimono... with its own history.
Face...Drawn. Photoshoped. Printed.
Needles... where does metal begin at? what do I have in my hand? how many lives, stories, miles, insolvencies, bookkeeping records, internationality, globalization can find place in this only doll?
...and now I put everything together, tear it, distort it, cover and uncover it, just to twinge it, punch it, pierce it, stab it, jab and puncture it once more. I cut and add till the doll is a part of me, of what I am. It's delivered and shown after I take and add without obvious sense on all of its surface...
Why do we do this, why do we like this, why do we put together our own little universe? why do other people like it, want it, keep it, give it away, rediscover it, throw it in the garbage, exhibit it, give it to a museum, recycle it?
And there is joy and tears, discovery, serendipity, envy, selflessness, passion, pain, illusion, fear and all the human feelings palette in the process. And most of all oblivion at the end.
And this ragged piece of doll is a philosophical cornerstone that distracts me from finishing my bookkeeping.
Folks, this is a real mad, mad world...
