_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 


Show me colours of your sky
Oana Paula Vainer

#1

The last time I heard about the detonation was back in May, leading my steps on the bland pavement, still warm enough to re- mind me where I was: on my way back from the Bibliotheque Kandinsky. A brisk gesture, origin unknown, shakes the leaves of the tree above my head. This very moment - one had to endorse the existence of this place, where the birth place of Modern Art still could have a reactive capability. But why should I desire to pursuit the past? This sti , dusty, taste- less, rusty chocolate-vendor‘s stand positi- oned in front of you has this door between us. Maybe it‘s not a bad idea to still wait and see what could happen in the next unde ned time segment.

„Hold the camera still, point it at the grey-greenish wall, please. The street marks your position, my position is chosen so that I could have enough shadow, on this unusually sunny day.“
The role of the hunter is transformed into being the hunted one. Don‘t even try preten- ding you are doing something else than just sitting in the grass, eating this cheese sand- wich. Too late, they were forced to yield and surrender their land to the occupying forces. And that was me.
„Switch the camera on video mode, stand up and walk towards the wall.“

Wasn‘t Monsieur Duchamp the owner of a set created, some time ago, in the space that nds itself behind this door?
I would say, without trying to convince you that I‘m right, that the master was Monsieur Brancusi. You don‘t even know what you‘re talking about.

#2

Is it the way you think it will end, when you wake up and remember just a fraction of your name? There could be no expectation for an answer, you are now awake and sitting in front of the bare wall. I see it but it is not a wall. The fresh morning breeze (that sweeps the front of the building) pronounces it as if using the breath but not the voice, so that only the one standing close by you can here you say: „Somebody‘s waiting.“

That‘s me.
While her phone was being stolen yesterday, right after her arrival, we can‘t do anything about it at the moment, that to meet in the right place, at the right time.It already sounds like a rhythm of corruption. Being at the right point of everything does not mean necessarily that one
is allowed to feel safe. The line of perspective that one touches in this moment is just one side of the story. Abandon this spot, follow another line and see with whom one shares the view.
Back to where I started. A strange feeling according to the meeting point: Sorbonne, an un nished cloud of knowledge, apprenticeship and production in its highest form. Repeat the image three times and spare yourself the feeling of boredom when faced with a computer generated animation. Nothing of this kind has revealed itself as being the precious aura of a hyper-realistic artist. On the other hand, there is nothing special in applauding an already well-acclaimed artist.
Trotzdem.
At Palais de Tokyo, a new work of E. Atkins was being exhibited - Ribbons (2014). We go inside.
I‘m just like that. Don‘t die. In uence. Refuse the ground. Like. And mutely demand. Despair not, darling. Lack. Hasten to add. I o er you a substitute for a smoky feeling. I suppose I have to refocus and do my work, write and think and produce lines that will virtuously be true to a restless rhythm of video games and tv channel sur ng,
or is it the fragments of words ashing on the screen
that empty my head like I once emptied this glass.
He is a virtuoso in working with digital techniques, as someone once said. Mesmerizing. Three HD-channel video installation. The huge space was habitated by the computer generated avatar sitting at a bar, chain-smoking and drinking. It then begins singing tales of love and loss. The avatar can‘t really exist outside the fantasy of the digital code. Instead it plays a triple looped parallel virtual reality and made me doubt my own feelings of perceiving the here and now. From the texture of the skin, the
glass, even the water, and with every written and spoken word, it charmed the skeptical me. Amazed at how many layers hide behind the computer generated image as tool. It came to me more than just perfect, as an amount of sensorily activated content of personal metaphor
and self representation. Through the dimension of the three-channel HD video and invaded by a soundtrack,
the experience turns around into building a chain of new combinations of di erent emotions and thoughts.

#3

We played ping-pong at one of the tables on the playground near Cite. We played early in the morning and every second day until exhaustion, measuring the table after the day time. Once the sun came up above the trees, at least one of us was in disadvantage. With squinting eyes and staring vaguely ahead, one could see nothing more but a pale fox behind the thoughts of yes- terday.
My leathery hands, reins woven through my ngers, hover just above my knees. Be now as fast as the light and at the end be water, be Bruce Lee. Imagine Bruce Lee while playing ping-pong with a creative being.
Be water!
„Oh, I remember that, I said... This is what it is, ok?“1 Thinking for a second, he remembers exactly the same words as in the last interview.
„I said:
Empty your mind, be formless, shape- less, like water. Now ll a cup with wa- ter - the water takes the shape of the cup. You put water into a bottle, it takes the shape of a bottle. You pour it into
a teapot, it becomes the shape of the teapot. Now water can ow, or it can crash. Be water my friend!“2
All I wanted to reach in this very mo- ment of the waking time was to just be a perfectly white plastic ping-pong ball.

1 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAxOHP- mITHI

2 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAxOHP- mITHI

#4

When you have seen or experienced a situation many times, than you don‘t perceive it in it‘s singularity.
One evening in Marais.

While I was returning home after buying some cheese and a baguette, i was not surprised to see C. walking the street almost in the same purposeful way. The seriousness of his entire palette of gestures makes me be unsure in choosing my words. Should it be : Hi or Salut, or Hello, I‘d better choose the rst one. He decides to come with us to the opening and we meet an hour later on the Geo roy-l’Asnier street.

There was the rasp of a bolt and the door suddenly opened. V. wanted to return the ping- pong set we used to play with a day before. Without considering too much, she decided to come to the opening tour through Marais and than Bonaparte street. This evening is dedicated to light and photography, from the spinning elements alienated from the original building to lights, objects, and space keeper.
As always, that was the way things were going when the sun went down until 9 o‘clock, when all the culture in Paris was saying good bye. For us, a starting point to spend more time under the cloudy sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© OANA P. VAINER 2016