The steps were slippery and very craggy. Almost at the summit, I slipped on some mud and twisted my ankle ended up sitting on the ground, looking out over sunny Edinburgh, not sure how I was going to get back down. I could feel my ankle swelling in my shoe.
It was February, cold and dark, and the only person I knew was my brother’s flatmate who was away with friends that evening. Not wanting to spend the first night alone in Wulfric’s small, dingy and sparsely furnished room, where the desk was covered in paperwork, and architectural models spilled down from the top of the wardrobe, I pulled on my winter coat and left the flat heading out into the city hoping that I would also find my way back.
It snowed overnight. Shrouded in white, the world looks unsaturated. The light that falls through my bedroom window is cold, the room is half shadow. Open boxes and bags filled with a miscellaneous mix of my personal belongings cover the floor of the room. The shelves are filled with books and knickknacks that tell the story of another person’s life. Photo albums, books from art exhibitions, toys, drawings, family portraits.
I had been planning to write a blogpost about the time that Rico and I travelled to Orkney in 2016 and posting it now seems right. The memories that the photographs hold should not change because things are over. That is something I feel very strongly about, even though exactly that – treasuring these memories anyway – can often be difficult, especially during the time soon after the break-up when everything is still so raw and painful.
My father sends a round robin with his Christmas cards every year. He occasionally (jokingly) asks me where my one is. A part of me finds the round robin silly, as I have often enough heard it to be described as my Dad’s “self-promotion” letter. Which it kind of is, to be honest. But it still interests me to read it and find out what he did that year. I guess it is in our nature to be curious about the lives of others!
A few weeks ago I met with the artist Pia Janssen and a few of her colleges to take part in a small writing workshop. We were given 5 minutes and a word to write about. Unfortunately, many of these words that are very difficult to translate into English. I will still do my best, though, to translate my 5-minute ramblings for you, because I think the outcome is quite good. The texts are very raw. When you only have 5 minutes to write you don’t have time to censor your thoughts.
Dusk. Black wires stretched over our heads and we looked up trying to follow the paths to their origins. On the sides of the open area on the roof of the “Münster Theater” we found buttons on the ends of dangling wires. Pressing one of them meant setting off church bells others triggered other sounds. Sometimes it was difficult to differentiate between the sounds of the outside world or the noise created by the installation we were standing in.