Translation of the thoughts and dreams about her...
exhibition starts on the 9th of october...

Building you a house
(danaja)


I didn't know it before.
I didn't know how it smelled.
I didn't know what colour it was.

I got to know it in orange colour. The mixture of colours of autumn dyed its hair, over hills and valleys.
[Over knolls]

"At that time it's the most wonderful", they said.
They used to call it Istra [you]. Rocks among shrubs and herbs. How is it possible that something is "so right"? How can walls that people made of stone look as if they have been left behind by nature?

I got to know it when I stepped on soft grass. When I noticed its smell, carried around playfully by the wind among empty walls, the reliquaries building the memories of it.


_____I've always wanted to build us this house.______


Not to be too perfect, but still to have its
soul. [its]
A broken door handle as a welcome. No exaggeration or
decoration. Only warmth, that would be needed, would be yours.
But not as it used to be. I didn't know it at that time. No
costumes, dances, kids' laughter... The only thing left
is the echo of kids' words. The wishes to become pilots
of planes, to get them to stars and gather them in baskets called
hearts. The only echo left is of kids taking
cattle to meadows. Carried away by the wind into memories. So,
what was it like?

The only thing left are the funny moments conveyed
by objects in the way in which they whisper their tales. They just
have to be found, they used to say. How can you find something that
has always been too beautiful to be seen? Something
doomed to failure by its merciless mother
nature, destroying everything we built with claws of fire, eyes of storms and
teeth of time. The transitory becomes eternal.
(or infinite?)
Time, when the remains of the era are its shape. When I
Got to know it, it was common.

In orange fields of playful and calm grass, barely swaying
in the wind, there used to be houses.
[Sarcophagi]

The shadows of memories broke the play of nature. In spite of it, they became one; like eyes in the face, when their warmth breaks their idyllic lines. It used to be like this.


I named neither the body of its landscape, nor its playful eyes, but it
as a whole. I called it [Istra].

I don't recall exactly what it was. The memory is deceiving in its vicinity. The only thing I know is that I suddenly wished to play on the playground of memories and tales brought by it. The playground was like a structure of beams, staying put where used to be roofs. The swings of thoughts and feelings. For some even fears.

To say I knew it before would mean to lie. I wouldn't hurt it this way. I wasn't interested in its youth chasing children running after a ball and lifting dust that their granddads nervously cleaned in pubs. Of course I was interested. In every single moment. But I never wanted to make it feel uncomfortable. It was never vulgar. The most common chores looked like magic. Its charms were stronger than its clumsiness and shame. Except form y clumsiness when I stepped in its kingdom. In the dream of moments, when my steps were stealing its land and tale and made its memory dirty.

Of course I'd like to know it and grow up with her. But it was here and now.
More beautiful than ever before.
It thought it was hidden from everybody.
But curious looks let it know that it was attractive and wanted.
When it thought even wind would forget about it.
Did it know I was watching it?
Was I really any different from a tourist with a nervous pace,
Set by the lenses of a camera?



It is exactly like the one I would like to draw.
But I would neither know nor want to.

To go away from it was as good as to return to it. Back.

It was similar to the faces of people waiting for the loved at the station.



It would be inappropriate to say that it was socialistic.
Although it understood (had) the charm:

"to understand the aesthetics of giving an orange"

Or stone or being grateful. On the one hand vivacious and playful like my childhood among tin pots and on the other like a grown up lady not hiding the stories that have created it
so ... Beautiful.

It could be called love. If it wasn't so special. Always somewhere between pessimistic sarcasm and stories and fairytales about who you were.

Why are we saying goodbye to trains, applaud to fireworks and pilots in planes?

[For it's a tradition.]
Urban legend about something we
we think it exists. Although it actually never
existed.

Therefore I'll always miss you.

Never any embellishments. What remains is just numbers. The numbers that remind us where we would like to live. Where we would like to come back for the beauty. The only thing that is left. A shelter. The shelter you provided. Of course, we would like to be there. Always. Always the home I was looking for. I love(d) this realism. When there is no need for anything more beautiful. I don't want what the others have. I don't want what becomes just envy and an unnecessary supplement to your most beautiful image. Yes this is exactly how I want to dream of you. Mine.
Although without roofs. Although the bed will be empty and the thoughts of where you are as the cold wind echoing between empty walls. When the roof is just a fishbone that has been deprived of all dignity by time.
It always remains; you are greeted by a broken door handle that
is brought by the wind sweeping by. By our house. Never again there will be laughter of your kids that are brought up to become grownups, who pay it back… Although you are sometimes left all alone next to a warm stove. It sounds awful. They remain. Dreams are what you are left with. And you know that they will return (to you); return, this is something. You were...and there. It doesn't matter if you never see it and never again there will be... this proximity. You always will be; when you want it, with a smile you'll say that you have known it. Not as it was,
but as you really felt and thought. Almost yours enough to lie down on the floor
and say that it's yours. Very quietly. Almost whispering (although they would consider it strange): "My house it is!" There we would live.
A home too small for two. Therefore I had to hold you tight. Uncomfortable bed, made comfortable by the touch of your memories. Tender and sweet. There, where we first watched the film of dreams and wishes. Empty habits of dinners are left behind. Ornament of roses not as an accessory, but as a tale about something I once used to know. Now I know what it was. I imagine how you tend to a red rose bush, hidden under the scarf of oblivion, old and mine. I can dream the smell of your kitchen, although I know what coffee smells like. Beautiful and unforgettable as the warmth of your breath. From a cup too small for two, for one day.

I was there. I saw you, entire, as nature thought you had to be. In the sunshine, washed by rain and filled with stories about the past and what is bound to happen.
When you were working in the field of my dreams dressed in the costume of the morning, whispering: "I'm leaving" I screamed: "I love you." To think where I was, to know where I wanted to.

Far away.
Away from everything that connects me to my every day that I hate. I'll most probably always want to return to the place where work means pride and the blue where people know how to fight against systems to build their dreams. The dreams like the ones we used to have.

The red line running through your villages like the writings on houses and not dividing.

You never drew borders created by us from whom the earth steals the steps and we think that we know and control it. You lead us (me). Although we sometimes forget how cruel life used to be towards you and how difficult life was and I'm dreaming of it and I'd like to feel again how you used to smell. I'd like to see the sunburnt hands red with blood writing with the same colour words of love on the houses that are deserted today. And so do you.
The red line running like veins giving life to you, and you giving it back to me. Slowly and secretly so that nobody will see.
The red line running through our veins and drinking from your earth that is sometimes red as well.
I love you. (it)

Rooms divided by stone
that is hidden by the earth which gives life to it. With stone that connects you. A village to a village, a man to a man. Sometimes white like pearls, sometimes red like the earth and the children who defended you. When the black storm wanted to give you a new name.
Children who are jealously being pulled back like good thoughts. I'd lie down on your earth and embrace the thoughts about beauty. Thoughts reminding me of myself. And when I am really tired of life and lie down and want you to be there. I want you to embrace my body that has been made my enemy by life. Hold it tight and make it disappear. And turn me again in the corner of somebody's house, a petal of a flower or only the moment that will unite me with you. I just want to be here (there).

Why is it always the same earth that gives colours to our dreams? How can it always give birth to other people that love you? They caress your face like they knew your skin. Like they were the ones you really love. And your skin sets their tables. It gives them warmth and it makes a child happy when it sits down next to you in the morning, proud like a farmer enjoying the vine growing from you. Tables that are places where dinners are made, where your sons are dressed, and where poems are written about your beauty, where plots are planned that will shed more innocent blood over the infinity of the beauty.
Much too often the support to those tired of life is forgotten.

And every moment I love your image. Every day I'd like to be with you, I'd like to know every moment that somebody calls life. The moment when I live with you through everything, when I'm tired and sit down and rest, when I'm hungry and sit at table and when I'm desperate and lean up against you, and you embrace me with your beautiful hands and dreams. Tables that are too small and big chairs and everything that you are to someone. As you are. Although they do not know you, they feel the softness hidden inside you. Why is it necessary that they first lose you? Why did they curse this proximity that is remembered today with pilgrims and flowers and big words? There are chairs as well. Attractive and decorated. There are important people in them singing about your name and writing poems. They speak in sober voices. And they don't see that the only thing you want is a hug of the person who caressed your skin and watered you with the sweat from the forehead. That breathed the image in you. That knew every blade from your meadow. His chair is more beautiful than thousand new ones. You are not interested in flowers or decorations. All you want is for children to start playing again. To pick flowers. Children bring joy. New love. New wars. New you.

They would like to dream again and build new machines to take them away. Again they (I) would be lured away from you by new dreams. But I wouldn't want them to ever make you sad. Wonderful machines, new and shiny would make you respected and take people across the landscapes of your beauty. Until they would be attracted by some new and better noise. Bigger and more shiny. And the machines that used to plough your beauty and created the need for something bigger and newer will take them abroad. To foreign places. To the places where their children would tread your earth and even burn it. Always some new dreams. The very dreams that are driving them and me. The wish to conquer your heart. Some by force and some by hand. And some others with a clumsy gesture, more childish. And they would brag by knowing you and having your dreams. That they play next to you as if they were your children. They would like to call you by their names. And I (they) would not know of it. For time would want it. And would stand humbly by the door again. And greedily watch every part of your body. Watch the skin of fields, sunburnt, like eyes, like bushy trees.

»And I'll tell my children about you. They will know, although they’ll be living far away, that you were somewhere there. That I was treading the dreams I called after you. That somewhere beside you there is a grave of all feelings that I left lying on you... That you took everything I dared to give you. For it was what I wanted. That you playfully smiled at me at colourful sunsets that made you beautiful. That shed light on your attractive face. The face I believed that your dreams would never end and the time when I made you them the queens would last forever. The queens of everything. My home and the place to rest, the place where I'm waking up now and where I'm seeing you off now. The day has come and brought along brothers, weeks, and the years that are going to change you. But you should know, although I'm small, unimportant and time will wipe me out of your thoughts and memory, that I love you. That I'll do everything for you. I'll write where you used to be and how you smelled. I won't guess how I could change and make more beautiful the way you were and save the moments when I didn't know you. I'd like to be the one to sing about our dreams. The one to carry the memory of you in the heart. The one to draw your eyes for the child who didn't know you. In the sand which used to be the stone in these walls protecting your children (our dreams). In the sand that will be blown by the wind like your hair used to be. The sand that moves the time that mercilessly takes you away. "
And this very was watched by somebody else. Like many before me (I'm lying).


I don't know whether they understood what you were saying. I don't know and I don't want to know what they see in the fields covered by your hair, in the music echoing like your voice in my dreams. In the shape that reminds of instruments played by my dreams.






"I was standing in vruja and drinking love and knowledge,
I found you and memories inside me, and wishes and everything else
that would still give me hope I'm going to wake up beside you.

And I found out that your (very same) houses are only heaps of stone
And roofs, beams made of wood.

Everything we make of them,
We make ourselves.
With a wish to know you.

Therefore I know what I saw,
I know where I was with you.
I'll carry it with me
When you'll have somebody else's name.

And playfully like today
I'll look at the fields of your body
and look in the depth of your eyes and dream.

I knew you and I love you, dreams of mine."

Thank you.