• Originally written for Dutch Magazine "Eyemazing" in 2010:
  • Here I am.
  • Writing about myself.
  • Believe me, that was not part of the plan!
  • I hoped someone else would do it … writer perhaps?
  • The real writer!
  • You know, the proper article. Review, little essay, an interview.
  • That would make me look good! My work profound! Far-reaching!
  • Like everybody else's!
  • But the writers! They bailed out.
  • The time was tight.
  • And there was no money in it.
  • And you know, you get what you pay for.
  • Because, if you ask me, I prefer pencil, brush, camera… or knife, if it comes to that.
  • Anything you can leave your mark on with.
  • But words, they float around, weightless and slippery.
  • They comfort, they hurt. Then they run away, transparent like water.
  • Because, if you ask me, I prefer music.
  • I should stand here, pressing violin to my chin ... carve out of air a beautiful melody with my bow.
  • Out of the thinnest air, the deepest sound would come!
  • But I don't have a violin! And don't know how to play!
  • So I am standing here, stark naked, searching for cover.
  • My white skin glows in unexpected light.
  • I am searching for the words to explain. To explain the crime.
  • Was it ignorance? The outsized ego?
  • That lifted me out of my fragile shell, from my safe “Elsewhere",
  • … and propelled me, right … here?
  • Sorry, I didn't knock. There was no door, no bell to ring and say... Hello, it's me.
  • There was no gate, there was no time!
  • From darkest corners, brightest clouds, I fell...like a cherry.
  • Clutching long bow, black folder, and my hat.
  • Because… I make pictures if you must know.
  • Because my soul is dripping. It's soaking wet.
  • Okay, listen, I will tell you all about it.
  • Tell you, because I don't know how to play.
  • Listen, I go out and find the highest mountain.
  • I stand up on the highest hill and wave my hands in the wind.
  • Like leaves in autumn, ideas blow around, appear, grow enormous, deflate and disappear.
  • Ideas slap my chin, bury me under, then lift themselves and "poof," they're gone again.
  • I open my jacket and let as many I can in.
  • They push me down, to the ground ...roll around.
  • In the deepest black and lightest white, and anywhere in between, … I roll.
  • Then I stand up, I clean stardust from my clothes, holding my pockets closed tight.
  • Only later, later at night, when all is safely asleep, I open them and let the little sparks out.
  • Sparks of light, like fireflies.
  • They dance, reflected in the fountains of my eyes.
  • Which one, which one will help me go, guide me through?
  • Like fireflies they are!
  • I cling to them and feel being lifted.
  • I am holding my breath, not feeling the floor.
  • Not feeling attached anymore … where do I go?
  • Where do I go, when there is no road, no map to guide me through, no border to stop me.
  • No ceiling, no floor!
  • Where do I go, if all around is just a milky, hazy mist.
  • And from the cloud above, thin strings are suspended, attached to my arms.
  • And I just hope, I hope, that up there, somewhere, at the other end of those strings,
  • there is a balloon filled with golden air,
  • a balloon that will carry me on, even if I have no more energy, no more strength to keep pushing forward.
  • It's a sentence, making pictures. No hope for early release for good behavior.
  • It's like crawling through the fog, each and every one of them.
  • Inching forward, with hands outstretched far ahead so as to prevent bumping my head.
  • Inching forward slowly, at times overwhelmed by the sense of the enormity of what is possible,
  • at times flipped out by fear … I will never make it.
  • I am crawling through that white darkness, crying … crying loud, out of happiness and dread.
  • The bottom is no longer visible.
  • I can only fly or be no more.
  • But someone may ask, Why? Why not just stay still?
  • Enjoy a drink at the end of the day, warm dinner, fleeting love?
  • Because… what if there is no light at the end of the tunnel?
  • Because, what if there is no tunnel?
  • If it is all just this collection of passing moments, meant to be lived.
  • And I say, what about the Bosnian boys and men taken to the forest and machine-gunned down into the ditch.
  • What about those who jumped down from the burning Twins?
  • They were going down with no shoes on. Why??? I want to know, why?
  • What about Neda, dying in a pool of her own blood on Teheran's sidewalk?
  • Her large brown eyes wide open in utter incomprehension.
  • What about the wars we fight, the hunger, sicknesses, depravity, the inequality?
  • What about the cigarette burning at your lips?
  • Have we learned nothing?
  • We keep marching to the same drum, licking ice cream in the sun!
  • OK, I get it!
  • I make only small pictures, no big deal.
  • Small, honest statements about the state of my soul.
  • Why should you care anyway?
  • There are plenty of pictures, anywhere you go.
  • Every time you turn the corner, there are pictures, every time you turn to the next page…more pictures.
  • New pictures, old pictures, new pictures just like old pictures.
  • Fresh, cool, hot, dated, contemporary, antiquated.
  • Seas of colors and shapes.
  • Feels like pissing into the ocean!
  • Feels like drowning!
  • Please, have mercy!
  • Okay, okay, there must be a reason!
  • Some reason to it all!
  • I photograph your face.
  • I move your arm. And I don't know why.
  • I print my pictures, I cut them, glue, paint, scratch, glue again, paint again.
  • I don't know why. Something is pressing me on. It must be done! I don't know why!
  • Dreams have landed. My son was born. I move your body sideways, put a flower in your hair.
  • Night changes into a day. I take my daughter's hand, hold her tight, show her the sky.
  • I don't know why.
  • Dreams have landed, I keep my head high, I don't know where I am going, I am flying blind
  • and I don't know why.
  • I know, there must be a reason. I soak up your stare, children's cry, I don't know what's tomorrow,
  • and I don't know why!
  • Only small pictures I make. Nurse them to life … no midwife skills. Like my soul, they are soaking wet.
  • My blood and sweat.
  • And my blood is warm ... and red.
  • Then release them, let them live their life. I don't know where they are going.
  • And I don't know why.
  • Look, trust me, I didn't want to do it, I didn't want to write.
  • I wanted to read something nice about me.
  • But writers, they bailed out!
  • Look, I don't know what I am doing, and I don't know what to say.
  • I am flying blind!
  • But now ... I am standing here, stark naked.
  • And suddenly ... I know it now! I know it all.
  • I see my shadow on the opposite wall.
  • I carry your weight, so you can be light.
  • Because I see the shadow, and there are wings on my back, and the wings are white.
  • I etch your sorrows and my demons into a piece of paper.
  • I carry the paper to the highest point, there kneel down and beg for forgiveness.
  • I am kneeling down there, stark naked in an unexpected light.
  • I have just feathers to cover myself. Their color is white.
  • Please, don't ask me why!
  • June 2010, Paris