Real Tree Roots Chandeliers Installation
By Giuseppe Licari
http://www.fubiz.net/2015/11/03/real-tree-roots-chandeliers-installation/
Andy Goldsworthy’s art
My default holiday gifts are Andy Goldsworthy’s books of photographs of his art…
Photographers Yves Marchand and Romain Meffre have made a career of very beautifully photographing modern ruins. A book of their Ruins of Detroit series was published earlier this year (to much press, you may remember those amazing photos from every blog on the entire internet). Their current project documents the unused, decaying or strangely repurposed movie palaces across North America.
Acontecendo no mundo todo…
Obsessive. O'Melk was well aware that he was one of the most obsessive characters he had ever know; yes, well aware: after a whole week sleeping with the subject, he realized only three other people were more obsessive than he was (still is).
“What have I reached due to my obsessive manners?” though O'Melk, while staring at a blank, yet-to-be, post. He still could not find in himself a better man, even after all his learning years. No doubt he had learned, that’s for sure, but… was it enough? Would it ever be?
This thoughts would disturb his pace and his peace. Day and night.
Day.
And night.
It may be, indeed, quite hard to get some perspective. "You can learn astronomy in a lifetime, natural history in three, literature in six,“ he remembered reading once, embracing the fact that he would only have a lifetime to cling on.
Obsessions, taking him from the plainest peace of mind to whirlwinds, emotional hurricanes. Sadness and happiness, a (not so) most improbable mixture. "Bipolarity? I wish,” was the recurring theme, the soundless voice he heard all the time. Really: all the time.
He reached a new, different level. Doing so always made him feel like a super-human; for about five minutes, to say the least (I do not think he feels like that for more than three minutes, but he insisted when telling me about it: -“Five minutes, that’s for sure. Not a second more; nor less.”
Certainly it had something to do with his birthday. There was always this urge to be alone, this time of the year. Alone, utterly alone. Bipolarity, why, yes. He wanted to be alone, but he also wanted this or that person to remember him. Not those he knew, saw everyday: this or that person, mind you.
This time, there was a particular girl. He would not dare telling her anything, no. Not after the past few months, the things he understood. Not at all. Crying was not among the things he could still do. He would not be tired, no; but he was very, very good at being - not feeling! - sad.
O’Melk woke up in the middle of the night. Something changed within him in the past few months. Once, he were the kind of guy who would go to sleep and would not wake up easily, no matter what happened. Next thing, he could not sleep more than a couple of hours in a row – as a matter of fact he could, he just would not do it for the sake of his sanity; it so happened that he learned to take short naps along the day, never dreaming. Latelly, however, his behavior was different: he split the day in 4 equanimous parts, meaning he felt the urge to sleep during two of this parts and they were always separated by moments where he had to put himself to some use.
He just was not bothered anymore, at the perspective of waking up around 4 am (this story is better told around 4 am; the time adds to the dramaticity of the situation), which just happened at that very near-summer dawn. It should have been one of his good ol’ waking, if not for that very peculiar dream.
(this tale only exists because O’Melk was an unconsiderate man: he did not mind, buzzing or e-mailing a friend was all the same to him, the only thing that truly mattered was to have the dream out of his system, in the open. He hated when a story was forgotten, that’s why he enjoyed practicing its telling)
Within those 4 hours of sleep, he dreamt about an old fashioned love – does anyone out there knows what it is like? –, the kind that spawns when one still is all too young and is, since then, carried like the lightest of burdens (and, nevertheless, a burden). He dreamt about her, and called me to tell me about it: -“I usually forget all about my dreamings in the morning and, to be honest, no matter how hard I fight against it I believe I still have some sort of connection to that remarkable girl, the one who held the strange ability of tattoing herself on men’s minds. What is it about her that is so appealing? Nevermind, listen to this… ”
He bragged, for the next 45 minutes, about his historical achievements and how fate was kind to him. Of course I did not believe a thing about how lucky he had been: I was there, when it all happened, during the school years and much, much after, when he finally got to be her boyfriend. But that is just a prequel to what he really wanted to talk about.
He dreamt he was in a, take a look at this, in a military casino, representing the government agency he worked for. Sitting in a big room, with papers spread in front of him, he was not surprised at her presence, by the door, staring at him. -“I was shocked I wasn’t surprised,” he told me, in a very gentle, delicate manner. The fact that he expected her scared him, to his surprise: -“I thought I was through with this matter.”
There was a conversation, and she tried messing with him, trying to make him feel like the man he once was, 6 years ago. She could not know he had matured more than 10 years during the last 6, could she? He still was not the man he wish he was back them, when she left him for security, but that is just because he was never really happy about anything since… since she left him.
In his dreams, she tried to commit suicide, right in front of him. All sorts of feelings battered his head, making his heart pound like Pert’s drum. Her suicide attempt was a failure. Things happened too fast then, and he could not recollect the order anything took place; all he knew for certain is that at some point of his dream, he as looking at her through an open door, thought and said out loud: -“It doesn’t really matter what you did, what you ever do. You are and will always be loved by me. No matter what…”
Perhaps that is exactly what pushed her into her unsuccessful attempt; perhaps it was just the fact that he knew he was dreaming and would wake up in a few instants. We cannot be sure about it now and the fact remains: he spoke the truth. He wandered, trying to explain why all this happened, why this dream: was it the fact that her old house was for sale? Or perhaps because he found a recent picture of her, with her husband, over the internet? Maybe the fact that he was falling in love with this new, wondrous girl he had just met…
Who cares? It was just a dream he wanted to remember after waking up. It has now been passed on. That shall suffice for now.
O’Melk entered the elevator, unwilling to work. “Rainy mornings are perfect for lying in bed, no breakfast, and the tv on,” he thought as he pulled his newest gadget out of his pocket, preparing to take a look at the day’s tasks.
His senses were numb: he was ranting between his teeth – mouth shut, of course, no coworkers should be aware it was one of his laziest mornings ever. Funniest thing is: these moments are those in which the most unexpected events take place. As if coming out of a deep swimming pool, O’Melk realized that there was some sort of hatch in the elevator. No, wait, it couldn’t be so: that elevator, as pleasant as it was, still had no windows; it was a large box in which 15 people could go up or down at any moment – a stupid thing to be said here, for that’s exactly an elevator’s job: to carry people up and down -, while the quiet sound of old songs was echoed all around.
It took him a few minutes to fully comprehend what was going on. Yes, that girl, that one girl – the same he saw every once in a while, having diner at the bake shop nearby. It was corny and he knew it; and could not help it either: she just seemed a being made of brilliant lights, a warm, bright, gentle Sun. Much to his pleasure and amusement, he felt his mouth watering; he could feel the aroma of bread and butter flourishing in his mind (and his body, most certainly), the very same thing he usually saw her enjoing – eating is not a word that would ever suffice, in his memory –, at the bakery.
“I… ha-ve… to try and… talk… to her,” the thought once again crossed his delirious mind. Shy, a shy boy he once was and a shy man he had become. His hands were quite uncontrollable, what would he do? “Do something, use your hands, quick,” was what he thought before looking for documents in his smartphone. By this time, he had already forgotten all about the schedule he once made. No, he was trying, plain and simple, to get a grip on his nerves.
No words came out of his mouth. Nothing. He could not smile, not even a grin, a wave of a head. Nothing. Not a thing.
That morning, he took his chances: quit his job and never, ever, looked back.
