In the question to each answer is already the answer. Leading questions because they set the impulse in a certain direction. When asked about the inspiring spark that comes from the image, it implies that there is this spark, that it expresses itself by provoking and creating a story. In order for this inspirational spark, which is inherent in every image but does not appeal equally to everyone, it is necessary to see, to take, and to take for granted. First, seeing (Part 1) was the turning, accepting sight that lights up that spark and initiates the story, just as the spark makes the wood burn at the campfire. The fire breaks through the night, but only a small section, just as the picture shows a small section of what we are used to seeing as reality. In order for this fire to be lit, the spark wants to be accepted. Engage in the Offer as Movement (Part 2), and I extend my hands to warm them to be touched (Part 3). It is as if I feel understood through the pictorial statement about the world, a partial aspect of the person who appeals to me and takes it with me.
Understanding that unites and brings together (Part 4), which gives me the freedom to tell. You give me your view of the world in the picture, which continues in my story. Illusion of togetherness, of a human being, that means to be like-minded. A block far.
For a while, just as we have a piece of our lives behind us that brought us here, into this moment of perception and understanding. We want to stay, sit down, side by side. Show and tell, show and explain. This expresses the social side of humans. He wants to express himself and be understood. That’s why you sit down. Can even engage each other. One wishes to be able to stay. Finally, a place of understanding and staying. A longing to pause to have found something like home. A longing that unites us, in which we resemble ourselves. But not anymore. For we are our story that formed us and made us who made us what we are lingering. We can relate, but not understand, not be in the story that belongs to another. So, we turn to each other just to discover that we have no way to reach each other. Ultimately, we always stay for ourselves. We see the same part of the world, and yet something else in it. It remains forever inexplicable. To some extent, we can take each other into our thinking, make our access understandable, but far greater is the piece that we have to go alone, in which we can no longer follow each other. So, we see, but it remains my and your seeing, so we move, but it remains my and your movement, so we touch, but the touch cannot go beyond the skin, cannot reach the actual being. For a little while we thought it was possible. Maybe we should have just paused in it without wanting more, but we must go on until the picture breaks into a thousand shards that may be put together again, but never give an unscathed whole picture.
What promises to see, to make the movement, to touch in the touch, that there can be a together fails in the attempt to actually reach you. The other, even if it is a Thou, is always the stranger, the outside of me. For a while we are able to explain each other, always only a little way. Never will a whole come out of it. But there is a way to approach this whole without ever achieving it. By presenting to me in the pictures the world, your world, your access and your being-delivered and your fragmentariness, and I tell you in my stories what your images in me effect, kitten the breakages, without wanting to cancel the brokenness therefore. It remains as its own infirmity. Just to experience the individuality and the self-being. To give up the illusion that life leaves us whole, and not again and again challenges us to rearrange and put together the fragments to keep you always in the provisional. T
o be there and to see and accept you in it is the initial spark to the picture, to the story.
Being isolated in the image
A reflection. Mirrors are something commonplace. But here they are broken, as if many different mirror images had been juxtaposed. Arbitrarily. Unintentionally. As it just happened. It does not give a whole. Interruptions. Irritation. Aspects. There is no order, just a colorful hodgepodge of individual aspects. A shop door. You can pay with Mastercard. And also, with other means of payment. It is hard to recognize. Maybe it is also a seal of approval. Detail of a street. Directly next to it. A driveway. A part of a car. Only a taillight. Another street section again. People who are on the move. Maybe even together. He raised his arm as if he wanted to dance. But it is probably just a gesture to emphasize what has been said. Another road section. A blue car. Also, only a part. Suddenly a red car. You know, even if you do not quite see it. The brain puts the picture together. Requires completeness. Car, again, in black and a human. For the first time together. Invention and inventor. Tool and user. Last, a display, maybe. A cafe. Maybe. Dark red that stands out. But in the end, the unrest remains, because nothing fits, and it cannot be made suitable.
Story: In the shadow of a life
In the shadow of a life I settled down, which tried again and again to draw me in, in a being that was no more and still did not let me go. Life does not let you go as long as it is, not even being. Probably the least of all. Therefore, and probably because I did not want to waste my strength, I left him where he was. I leaned against a tree. Both shadows lay on top of each other, the tree and my life without mixing. Even the shadows remain for themselves. Like everything else. Like the environment I see. Image after image builds up and sinks again as soon as my eyes continue to move. And the wind blows away the pieces of paper that I carelessly put down next to me after I made them artistically.
“May I sit down with you?”, a voice caused me to look up.
“Of course,” I replied automatically.
“It’s a beautiful day, do not you think?” he tried in conversation, the young, tall, slender man who sat down next to me while I sought and found his shadow. Even his remained for himself.
“Can be,” I replied, “Do you feel the shadow of life, too?”
It was not a question he had expected. She also stood out a bit, especially when you’re used to working on conversational phrases when getting to know each other. But he did not answer right away but seemed to think about my question for a while. Involuntarily, I thought how young he was. In relation to me. We always define age in relation to our own. So young, he could have been my son. There was not much life shadow, could not be much. It probably could not, because if you see the shadow of life at a young age, that usually means nothing good.
“A little,” he answered at last, “but I’m just beginning, he’s not a burden, maybe a companion.”
“I wish I was still so young that he was only a companion,” a first impulse let me say, then added quickly,
“No, I did not really wish it, it’s the way it is, I am There you are, in this moment, in no other. ”
“And that’s the moment,” he told me, and I was stunned by the unison. Also, the openness.
“It’s good to be here,” I said accordingly.
“Just as well as any other place, but it’s this one, and therefore the best of all possibilities,” he added, and I had to swallow because so much unison was never found in thinking, or at least I could not remember. Could it just be that way? Was that what drove me to this place and gave me the illusion that the shadow of my life weighed less.
“It’s good,” I replied accordingly, “just fine.” And my gaze lost for a moment in the pictures, which seemed to add to one. If you believe in it. There is so much we just believe in. Even if we call this assumptions. “It’s good to stay, too,” he added, causing me to look back, to him, and to the mystery of the encounter.
“In the moment, in this here, in spite of the shadows, because the light is there and keeps the shadows under control,” I said. “The light of the sun and the light of a you walking and carrying with you,” he said, and I was more and more taken aback. Suddenly the world was transformed. What an understanding that just happens like that can make.
“It’s like being more transparent, with each word leading to each other, words can also lead to each other, but rarely,” I ventured another push. “One just has to be mindful of it, although one’s intuition usually leads the right way,” he warned, “we are no longer used to hearing our intuition, perhaps because the usual, what we have learned to do say, blocking your gaze on what’s crucial, basically.” “The inner voice that really matters and makes it possible to work together,” I said, his hands playing with the last bits of paper that the wind had not yet taken. Remnant of what was part of the shadow of my life. And now the wind has carried away piece by piece. It did not matter anymore. Not here. Not now. In no more here. In no more now.
“Where do you come from?”, A question broke through my thoughts. The disillusionment suddenly came, and the shadow weighed twice as hard. Still, I was not ready to accept it because I did not want to lose the illusion. But it would have been too nice. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Well, you’re not from here,” he tried to make more precise, “and it would be interesting to know where you came from, from which country, from what city, what you did, how your life was, and all those things.” And I felt a knot forming in my throat, as always happens when I feel like losing a friend. It was only someone who could have been a friend. But even what might have been, what I already felt close enough to touch, hurts when you realize that it was nothing but deception. “Do you see that little bitch,” I pointed out, struggling for composure, toward the little crossbreed dog that had curled up on my legs into a ball of yarn, “One day I found her hiding in a shrubbery, frightened and scared. For a long time, I do not know how long, I just sat there and offered her to come to me, finally accepting my offer, I do not know what happened to her and I’ll never know, I do not know. where she comes from or what she did, and it does not matter either, she did not ask where I came from or what I did, even if she could, she would not do it, it has no relevance that we accept each other, it’s just good, and make the shadows of life bearable. ”
And because he knew that there was nothing left to say after he had destroyed the illusion, he left. Lost in thought, I stroked the bitch in my lap.
We are caught up in one thing, in our interpretation patterns. The shadow, which is the past, the background, and does not let us go, is repeatedly discussed again. We are not asked what we are now, but what we were. Over and over again we are called upon to recreate a being. It makes you tired. Piece by piece, pictures are sketched that are xxx nothing more than fragments. Fragments of our own reflection. And because we want the whole, the undestroyed, we get more and more pictures. Put them next to each other, try to hide the break lines. But what is not right, cannot be made consistent. We want it different, we want to force it, but it does not work. Instead of even seeing the possibility that this fragmentation, that which cannot be put into a whole, constitutes the peculiarity of life, we do not lose ourselves in the compulsion to harmony that does not exist. That’s the real failure. If we accept the fragmentation, yes, take it for granted, then we can accept life. Reflection. Individual parts. Life.
The picture speaks to itself, in its isolation. It is cutout. Focus. Here again exaggerated in the fragmentation of the excerpt. Symbol of life, each one. I can recognize it in it. In every single fragment that stands next to the other and should be left as it is.