In theory the island has a clearly defined border. But where is it? The shoreline? In that case: low or high tide? Stormy weather or calm waves? Do the rivers belong to the island or to the ocean? And what about islands that are connected during low tide but separated during high tide?
Line: shellac and steel
Tunnel: shellac and fabric
Ocean: shellac and concrete
Tunnel with hand: shellac, fabric and hand
Melting: shellac and fabric
The amazing beauty of shellac in sunlight
As the Explorer I stood on top of the cliff, right where Tenerife ends and the ocean begins. I looked out over the strait towards La Gomera, the neighbour island, its green pointy contour completely dominating the horizon. I could probably swim there if I wanted it badly enough. Still, there was no contact between the original populations of these islands. Why is that? How could they stand not knowing what was going on on that other piece of land, the only other piece of land visible to them?
Casting silicone cubes
Silicone in concrete
Concrete and silicone
As the organizer I wanted to sort the world, draw the lines and put everything in it’s right box. It makes the world understandable. But the categories kept failing and unless you make a box for every single thing you won’t understand the world that way anyway.
Do you remember that time when I helped you to move? I was so efficiant in packing away your kitchen things that you had to call me for months afterwards to ask where things where hidden. We are right by that house now. Your last house, with the amazing view. We reached the sea finally, crossing half this country on foot to get here. I remember you walking slowly in this place, your hip hurting more and more. But you never stopped picking away the weed that wanted to live in your driveway. You brought a foldable chair with you, sat down and picked away, then moved the chair one step foreward, sat down again and continued. You had plans when you moved here, even though you somehow knew you where moving back north to die. Someone else live in your house now. They are not as good at picking away the weeds, but I’m sure they love the view. We slept the last night at that museum you liked so much, they have cottages for hire now in the middle of all the historical buildings. We had dinner at the same table where you and I ate. We talked about you. We will continue to talk about you.
Fragment 13: a piece of weed from her driveway, since she is no longer there.
The sea at last.
The cliffs fall apart like cubes here.
Detail from one of the sets at the museum Mannaminne.
I doubt that you remember the last christmas we spent together. It was the last time you went south, but for you geography was just a matter of convinience. By then Spain was on the second floor of the house and the kitchen was preparing the Nobel-price dinner. You where apparently there to interview us about our family restaurant, not at all to celebrate christmas, even though you got confused every time you remembered that you where also part of the family. I tried to correct your thoughts and bring you back to reality, until I realized that being corrected constantly is no fun and what is reality anyway? So we embarked on a journey through your mind insted. Every time you asked the same question I gave you a different answer, to see which one you liked the best. We ended up with plans to go to the north pole by hot air ballon. All those plans gone, offcourse, five minutes later but you liked them while they lasted. The next five minutes was a different adventure.
I wanted to tell you that it was one of my best christmases and I will never stop being amazed of how the mind creates reality, even though I will never stop missing having a long and continious conversation with you.
Fragment 12: a piece of fir / a bit of christmas tree
In this house the christmas candles where still in the window.
A farm with a view.
A wonderful but closed down roadside restaurant called “the Swan”.
I think I found your glasses by the road today. Or at least parts of them. It could easily be them, you had so many. Your glasses where always a bit bent and crooked, from being sat on or for fallen asleep with in front of the television or somehow getting under lots of bags in the car.
We walked the road of the famous 1931 strike protest today, the one that ended with the military opening fire against it’s own population and killing five people. A dark day in swedish history, but as some dark days do, it changed this country for the better since (almost) everyone realized the brutality was way over the top and that the military should have nothing to do with civilian matters anymore.
You where six years old when this happened. You didn’t need glasses yet. You had long before you would fall asleep in front of a television. You had not even sat in a car. You had all these years left.
Fragment 11: a lens from a pair of broken glasses.
Detail from the memorial of “the shots in Ådalen”, front page from the local newspaper the day before the protests with the news that led to the protests (“Strike breakers invades Ådalen”).
Do you remember when we drove through the mountains and you held on so hard to that little handle above the window each time your side of the car faced the edge? In every turn of the serpentine road you made your scared-sound by sucking in air through clenched teeth. You told everyone afterwards how scared you had been and you eyes glittered full of joy every time.
Fragmnet 10: a piece of a rusty car we found along the trail today.
The trail goes on for at least a km in each direction, how did it get here?
We are in sawmill country now.