Tuuli
(broken windows, whistle with reverie.)
The project took place through the winter month of 2020/2021, a lockdown in Kilbaha, Co Clare. The time had disintegrated like the foam of the ocean waves, leaving but a residue at the shores of our dreamtime, so we may retrace our steps. Watching a wave unfold.
@artem_golden_
Tuuli : Broken windows whistle with reverie.
Have you ever felt like a mirror looking in a mirror?
Turning a lens on yourself, to engage in a feedback loop.
Facing reality, what do we say.
To be so sure of your own words, to follow each sentence to its intent. Taking a step, stepping fully, as you are, it is it. What is courage, what is generosity, in the wanting and the grasping of a hand of a flaccid intellect. A glint of light through a keyhole. Revenge to the blind grasping every desire turned to stone, take a dive, you don’t until you do.
Can you become aware of your own gravity?
While falling you become aware of your own gravity before the impact, like falling in love. Grá/vita (In the italian word for gravity, we find the Irish word for love and a Latin word for life), though impact is imminent, we still want to fly.
Sing, song, dance, dream.
Winter, summer, autumn, spring
Life, death, stars, moon, sun, light,
Grow, grace, wonder, awe, twilight
REALTA/LIGHT/REALITY/REALTA
Time sets us a blaze and we dance till we are spent to ashes.
I am burning and I dont even feel.
…
Passing through, doppler thought
Passing time, at the threshold of desire
A flowering in the mouth
The threshold of our (ec)/ lisp
Let me exhale.
EXILE
Once I met an old man with a bicycle that appeared from the fog at a blue hour of the morning. He reminded me about the Stalker, the one that knows his way around the zone. He casts stones to feel for treacherous ground. Ever since I attributed photography to having similar power. It became sort of a navigation tool for me, it tells me where I am.
These are stories trying to relate a subjective feeling, longing, experience. Small flicker and whispers that pull at each other in a bittersweet song. Questions that dissipate as you drift to sleep, transitions between remembering and forgetting.
crié / rie
Laugh as forgetting guides you to remeber.
To Resound
I awe, I see.
Until I’m but a whisper carried on a flutter of sparrow’s wing, waving a small gesture of hope. The last breath spelled on the lips and carried from murmur to murmuration.
Becoming the voice in your dreams.
Reanimation.
artemgolden.com 