| Traces of somebody who saw the same rays of sun making their way through the dawn, heard the same whispering in the trees, smelled the same mouldy air on the long escalators and elevators in the underground, someone who touched the same wall, the same floor, the same book or the same glass. Contributing to one sLow ScULPTure called city, a space between individuals within a material-immaterial something. Objects being formed within a broad scale of time, creating an ever-changing archive. Either one defines their space where the rain falls or builds a roof against it. Either one flows through space or space flows through them. If there are no spaces anymore, cause urbanity has swallowed them all, then at least there are stories telling about them. And the stories were not too bad, so no need to forget them. Every story sets up its own space, and likewise every space is a carrier of stories. And then, it was Monday. |
