Birdie Brachbill, ๐๐ฐ๐ต๐ฆ๐ด ๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐๐ฐ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ (๐๐ฆ๐ต๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ๐ด ๐ต๐ฐ ๐๐ต๐ต๐ฐ), 2023, 8ยฝ x 11 Xerox paper
๐ธ๐ฉ๐ข๐ตโ๐ด ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ด๐ต๐ช๐ฏ๐จ, March 2023, On the Metra platform
โSoon after my third nephew was born, I tried to write him a letter. After many failed attempts and finding every word insufficient, I realized that what I wished to say to him could not, in fact, be said. Because of his infancy, which is to say, his inability to read, any language I had to write would have to sustain time and encapsulate the weight of my emotion through the passing of the years. The impulse to write him a letter, to warn him about the world, to bestow upon him what I had learned in the twenty-three years between our beginnings, could not pacify my desire to speak to him in that present moment. As a response to this, I decided on the language of sculpture, nailing four holes into a stack of Xerox paper. With each turn of the page, the hole becomes less legible, eventually returning the letter to its unpunctured state by the end of the stack. This is all to say that I was writing a wound, but with time, just like words, each puncture heals, weighing less than it did in the beginning, each becoming nothing. (b.b.)โ
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Photo: Luca Klauba
@lucaangeloklauba