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.

Vabilo [invitation]

Kako zacheti…
danaja MSP

Vabljeni

Vedno sem znal samo pri sanjah.
»Zakaj torej poznamo etnologijo samo takrat,Ko ljubljenih ni? Ko tishinaOdgovarja na vprašanja naših misli?«

2. sanje v okviru danaje, ki spadajo v vejo MSP (mehanichne soshke postrvi) in spomenishkega varstva simbolizma.

Slikarsko inštalaterska razstava pohištvenih slik: »Zgradil bom nama hisho«[Building u a house] Bor Čeh, danaja …

Vizualna razprava o tem, kaj je Istra? In o tematiki obujanja starih običajev. Kje postane etnologija idealiziranje o svetu, ki ga ni bilo in smo si ga ustvarili kot pobeg v sanje: »Kako se je včasih lepo živelo«. Torej poskus, da teoretiziramo našo navezanost na spomine in na njo. Pogled v to, da teoretiziranje lepih stvari ubije čar in našo lastno pravljico o ljubezni na polju, sovraštva do tistih, ki so hoteli te sanje vzeti in bolečino, ki ostane, ko se ljubljeni otroci odpravijo v svet realnega življenja brez nje.

Hkrati bo to priložnostPredstavitve teoretichne linije retro pohistva»teoretichnih inshtalaterjev

Msp, danaja Vabljeni torej na odprtje razstave, ki se bo zgodilo9.10. 2008
Na Levstikovem trgu 5V stari Ljubljani [Laibach]

Stanovanje [hisha] ostane po odprtju na ogled 24 ur na dan za vpogled v sanje o njej……………………………………………[peep show] Bor Čeh danaja


Posebna zahvala vsem ,ki so omogočili nastanek razstave: g. Bojchiju in njegovi boljshi polovici, gospodu Rudolfu Ozimku, Klementu Schpendalu, Polonci Juntes, Jaki Bonča, Darkotu Slavcu, Primožu Potočniku, Gabrijelu Križmanu, Vruji, Zhorzhu, tov. Juretu Marinshku, mami, bogu, Jezusu, Istri (z vsemi Premrli) in teoretičnim kozmonavtom: Mateji Centa, Matjazhu Strazharju in Janezu Zavashniku, Akustiki Primožič, Inštitutu AVA, Pepiju Sekulichu, Sanji Vatič, Aja Vesna Ginovska...

In vsem, ki ste jezni ker vas ni omenjenih.Ponovno so vabljeni tudi vsi vashi prijatelji kajti she vedno je tudi odprta akcija pripeljite nam 5w vashih prijateljev. Zato povabite tudi vashe prijatelje in sovrazhnike in jim prosim poshljite to elektronsko sporochilo. Ne skrbite ne gre za verigo. poshljite vsem ,ki jih ni na seznamu. Ko mi je shepetala da odhaja sem zakrichal: "Ljubim te!"

2. danaja Msp- Building u a house

Thinking in slovene...
Never missed u so much. A discussion about Istra and the original text about the exhibition...
(sadly not the original version becouse of the limited editing options)

opening of the exhibition on the 9th of October at Levstikov Trg5 in Ljubljana

To her


Building you a house
(danaja)

Prej je nisem poznal.
Nisem vedel kako je dišala.
Nisem vedel kakšne barve je bila.

Spoznal sem jo oranžno. Mešanica jesenskih barv je ovila njene lase, po hribih in dolinah.
[hribčkih]

"Takrat je najlepša", so rekli.
Pravili so ji istra [ti]. Kamenje med rastjem in zelom. Kako je lahko nekaj tako "tisto pravo". Kako lahko kamniti zidovi, ki jih je naredil človek izgledajo, kot da jih je narava tam pozabila.




Spoznal sem jo, ko sem stopil na mehko travo. Ko sem zavohal njen vonj, s katerim se je veter igral med praznimi zidovi, relikvijami, ki gradijo spomine na njo.


_____To hišo sem nama vedno hotel zgraditi.________


Da nebi bila preveč dovršena, a še vedno nosila njeno
dušo. [svojo]
Povešena kljuka kot dobrodošlica. Nobenih pretiravanj ali
olepševanj. Edina toplina, ki bi jo rabil, bi bila tvoja. PT
Pa ne tako, kot je bila včasih. Takrat je nisem poznal. Ni
bilo narodnih noš, plesa, otroškega smeha... Ostal je samo
še odmev otroških besed. Želje po tem, da bi bili piloti
letal, ki bi jim sklatili zvezde in jih nabrali v koške, ki jih
imenujemo srce. Ostal je le še odmev otrok, ki peljejo
živino na pašo. Še tega odnaša veter med spomine. Kakšna
je torej bila?

Ostali so le še trenutki situacijskih komik, ki jih govorijo
predmeti in način, na kako šepetajo svoje zgodbe. Le
najti jih je treba, so govorili. Kako lahko najdeš nekaj, kar
je bilo od nekdaj preveč lepo, da bi to lahko videl? Nekaj
je bilo obsojeno na propad s strani neizprosne matere
narave, ki s svojimi kremplji ognja, očmi neviht in zobom
časa, odžira vse, kar smo gradili. Minljivost postane večna.
( ali neskončna? )
Čas, ko ostanki neke dobe pomenijo njeno obliko. Ko sem
jo spoznal je bila preprosta.

Na poljih oranžne igrivosti in spokoja trave, ki se kot rahli komaj opazni kodri zibajo v vetru, so stale hiše.
[sarkofagi]

Silhuete spominov, ki so prekinile igro narave. A so se z njo vseeno zlile; kot oči na obrazu, ko njihova toplina prekine idilo umirjenih linij. Taka je stala.


Nisem dal imena, niti telesu njene pokrajine, niti igrivosti oči, ampak njej kot celoti. Rekel sem ji [istra].

Ne spomnim se točno, kaj je bilo? Spomin je varljiv v njeni bližini. Vem le, da sem nenadoma začutil željo, da bi se igral na igralih spominov in zgodb, ki jih je nosila s seboj. Ta igrala so bila kot tramovi, ki stojijo na mestu, kjer so nekoč bile strehe. Nosilci gugalnic misli in občutkov. Za nekatere celo strahov.

Govoriti o tem, da sem jo poznal že prej, bi pomenilo, da lažem. Vendar ji tega ne bi naredil. Ni me zanimalo, kako je njena mladost na ulici podila otroke, ki so brcali žogo, dvigovala prah, ki so ga živčno odganjali nonoti v gostilnah. Seveda me je zanimalo. Vsak trenutek. Nikoli pa nisem hotel, da bi se ob tem počutila nelagodno. Nikoli ni bila prostaška. Še najbolj vsakdanja opravila so ob njej izgledala magična. Njeni čari so vedno bili močnejši od vsake nerodnosti in sramote. Razen moje, ko sem stopil tja, kjer je ona vladala. V sanjah trenutkov, ko so moji koraki kradli njeno zemljo in zgodbo in umazali njen spomin z njimi.

Seveda bi jo hotel poznati in odraščati z njo.A je bila zdaj in tukaj.
Lepša kot kadarkoli.
Mislila, da je bila skrita pred vsemi.
A so ji radovedni pogledi dali vedeti, da je lepa in iskana.
Tudi, ko je mislila, da bo še veter pozabil na njo.
Je vedela, da jo gledam tudi jaz?
Sem bil kdaj res drugačen od turista z živčnim korakom,
ki ga diktirajo zaslonke?



Natanko taka, kot bi jo hotel narisati.
Pa ne bi znal. Niti hotel.

Iti od nje je bilo skoraj tako lepo, kot se vračati k njej. Nazaj.

Podobno obrazom ljudi, ki na postaji vedno pričakujejo ljubljeno osebo.



Nesramno bi bilo reči, da je bila socialistična.
Čeprav je (razu)imela čar:

"razumeti estetiko obdarovanja s pomarančo"

ali kamnom in vračati hvaležnost. Po eni strani radoživa in razigrana, kot moje otroštvo med emajliranimi posodicami, po drugi pa odrasla gospa, ki ne skriva zgodb, ki so jo naredile tako... Lepo.

Lahko bi temu rekel ljubezen. Če ne bi bila tako posebna. Vedno nekje med pesimističnim sarkazmom in zgodbami ter pravljicami o tem, kdo si bila.

Zakaj mahamo vlakom, ploskamo ognjemetom in pilotom v letalu?

[Ker je to tradicija.]
Urbana legenda o nečem, kar
mislimo, da je. Pa čeprav ni
nikoli dejansko bilo.

Zato te bom vedno pogrešal.

Nikoli nobenih olepšav. Ostanejo samo številke. Številke, ki nas spominjajo, kje bi hoteli biti doma. Kam se vrnemo po tisto lepo. Tisto edino kar še imamo. Zavetje. Zavetje, ki si ga nudila. Seveda bi hotel biti tam. Vedno. Vedno najti tisti dom, ki sem ga iskal. Ljubi(l)m (sem) ta realizem. Ko ni potrebe po nečem lepšem. Nečem kar imajo drugi. Nečem kar postane zgolj zavist zbujajoč in nepotreben dodatek tvoji že tako najlepši podobi. Ja Točno tako te hočem sanjati. Mojo.
Čeprav brez streh. Čeprav bo postelja prazna in in bodo misli na to, kje si kot
hladni veter, ki odmeva med praznimi zidovi. Ko bo streha le še ribja kost, ki ji
je čas vzel vso dostojanstvo. Vedno ostane; pozdravi tista viseča kljuka, ki
jo veter, ko ga zanese mimo. Mimo najine hiše. Nikoli več smeha tvojih
otrok, ki jih vzgajaš v ljudi, ki to vračajo pa pa..Čeprav te včasih pustijo samo pr topli peči. Zveni grozeče. Ostanejo. Tebi ti sanje. In veš, da se (ti) bodo vrnile tudi to je nekaj. Bil si...in tam. Kaj zato, če je ne boš
nikoli videl in nikoli več tam ne b(il)o... tako blizu. Vedno boš; ko
boš to hotel, z nasmehom rekel, da si jo poznal. Ne tako kot je
bila ampak res tako kot si čutil in mislil. Skoraj dovolj tvojo, da bi se ulegel na tla
in rekel, da je tvoja. Čisto tiho. S pritajenim vzdihom (čeprav bi te čudno gledali): "Moja hiša je!" Tam bi živela.
Dom premajhen za dva. Zato sem te moral stisniti k sebi. Neudobna postelja, ki jo udobno postelje šele dotik tvojih spominov. Nežnih in lepih. Tam, kjer sva prvič gledala film sanj in želja. Za nama ostanejo prazni običaji večerij. Ornament vrtnic ne kot lepotni dodatek ampak kot zgodba, o nečem kar sem nekoč poznal. Zdaj vem kaj je bilo. Predstavljam si te kako skrita pod ruto pozabe, stara in moja okopavaš grm rdečih vrtnic. Vonj tvoje kuhinje lahko sanjam, čeprav vem kako diši kava. Lepo in nepozabno kot toplina tvoje sape. Iz lončka premajhnega za dva, za en dan.

Bil sem tam. Videl sem te celo, tako, kot je narava mislila da moraš biti. Obsijano s soncem, umito od dežja in polno zgodb o tem, kaj je bilo in o tem, kaj še bo.
Ko si v narodni noši jutra okopavala polje mojih sanj s šepetanjem: "odhajam" sem zakričal: "Ljubim te." Misliti, kje sem bil kot vedeti, kam sem hotel.

Daleč stran.
Stran od vseh stvari, ki me vežejo na vsakdan, ki ga sovražim. Verjetno se bom vedno hotel vrniti tja, kjer delo nosi ponos in modro barvo, kjer se ljudje znajo boriti proti sistemom, da si zgradijo sanje. Take kot sva jih nekoč sanjala midva.

Rdecha nit, ki se vije skozi tvoje vasi, kot napisi na frontah hiš, ne razmejuje.

Nikoli ni risala meje, ki smo si jo ustvarili mi, ki nam zemlja krade korake in kateri mislimo, da jo poznamo, kontroliramo. Vodiš nas (me) pa ti. Čeprav včasih pozabljam koliko je bilo življenje kruto do tebe, koliko je dejansko bilo težko živeti s tabo sanjam o tem, da bi nekoč spet rad videl kako si dišala. Rad bi videl kako so roke ožgane od sonca, rdeče od krvi pisale s prav tako barvo parole ljubezni na pročelja hiš, ki danes samujejo. Kot se jim zdi da tudi ti.
Rdeča nit, ki se vije kot žile, ki dajejo življenje tebi, ki mi ga vračaš. Počasi in tako, da tega nihče ne vidi.
Rdeča nit, ki se vije po naših žilah in se napaja iz tvoje zemlje, ki je včasih prav tako rdeča.
Ljubim te. (jo)

Sobe ločene s kamnom,
ki ga skriva in rojeva zemlja. S kamnom, ki te povezuje. Vas do vasi, od človeka do človeka. Včasih bel kot biseri, drugič spet rdeč od zemlje, kot so tvoji otroci, ki so te branili. Ko črna vihra je nevihte, hotela dati novo ti ime.
Otroci, ki jih kot lepe misli, ljubosumno vlečeš nase in nazaj k sebi. Legel bi na tvojo zemljo in objel misli o lepem. Misli, ki me spominjajo na sebe. In ko bom enkrat res utrujen od življenja legel, hočem da si tam. Hočem, da objameš moje telo, ki ga je življenje naredilo za mojega sovraga in ga objameš. Stisneš tako močno, da kar izgine. In me spet narediš za vogal nekoga hiše, del rože ali le trenutek, ki ga bo naredil eno s tabo. Samo, da sem tu (tam).

Zakaj je vedno ista zemlja tista, ki nam barva sanje. Kako lahko rojeva vedno druge ljudi, ki te ljubijo. Gladijo te po obrazu kot da bi poznali tvojo kožo. Kot da bi bili oni sami tisti, ki jih ti res ljubiš. In tvoja koža njim pogrinja mize. Daje jim toplino in tisto, kar naredi otroka veselega, ko zjutraj k tebi sede, ponosnega kot kmeta, ki uživa, ko se s tebe vije trta. Mize, ki so kraji, kjer pripravlja se obedek, kjer previjajo se tvojih sanj sinovi, pišejo se pesmi o tvoji vsej lepoti, sklepajo zarote, ki polivajo novo in novo nedolžno kri po neskončnosti lepote.
Prevečkrat podpore so utrujenim življenja, ki z njih pijejo opojnosti pozabe.

In vsak trenutek ljubim to podobo. Vsak dan bi hotel biti s tabo, poznati čisto vsak trenutek, ki mu nekdo pravi kar življenje. Trenutek, ko s tabo preživi vsako stvar, ko truden sede k počitku, lačen k obedu, ko obupan nate nasloni sključen hrbet, da vzameš ga v objem svojih lepih rok in sanj. Pretesne mize veliki stoli in vse kar nekomu pomeniš. Taka kot si. Čeprav te ne poznajo, vedo, da se v tebi skriva mehkoba. Zakaj je nujno, da prej te izgubijo. Zakaj preklinjali so včasih to bližino, ki se danes jo spominjajo s procesijami rožami in velikimi izreki. Tudi tam so stoli. Lepi, okrašeni. Na njih so pomembni ljudje, ki opevajo tvoje ime in pesnijo, V višave z resnim glasom govorijo. In ne vidijo, da si želiš le objema, tistega, ki je božal tvojo kožo in jo napajal s potom svojega čela. Ti vdihnil svojo je podobo. Poznal je vsak las tvoje livade. Njegov stol je lepši od tisoč novih. Ne zanimajo te okraski ne cvetje. Vse kar hočeš je, da bi se otroci spet igrali. Trgali ti rože. Otroci, ki pomenijo veselje. Novo ljubezen. Nove vojne. Novo tebe.

Spet bi sanjali in gradili nove stroje, da bi jih peljali. Spet bi me (jih) nove sanje mamile od tebe. Ampak nebi hotel, da te kadar koli žalostijo. Lepi stroji, novi in bleščeči peli bi ti čast, jih peljali po pokrajini vseh tvojih lepot. Vse dokler jih spet ne premami novo in boljše njih bobnenje. Še večjih, še bolj bleščečih. In prav ti stroji, ki so orali tvojo so lepoto in zbujali potrebo po nečem večjem nečem novem jih popeljejo prek meje. Tja, kar imenujejo tujina. Tja, kamor bi njeni otroci stopili na tvojo zemljo in te celo požgali. Vedno nove sanje. Prav te sanje, ki ženejo njih in mene. Želja po tem, da srce bi tvoje osvojili. Eni s silo drugi z roko. Tretji pa z nerodno gesto, takšno še otroško. In hvalili bi se s tem, da te poznajo, da so njihove sanje tvoje. Da se igrajo ob tebi kot, da so tvoji otroci. Tudi oni imenovali bi te s svojimi imeni. In jaz (oni) tega ne bi vedel. Ker čas tako je hotel. Spet ponižno stal bi tam na vratih. Z očmi požiral vsak delček tvojega telesa. Gledal njive kože, zagorele, kot oči košata bi drevesa.

" In otrokom svojim pravil bom o tebi. Vedeli bodo: pa čeprav bodo živeli daleč, da si tam nekje bila. Da stopal sem po sanjah, ki po tebi sem jih klical. Da nekje ob tebi, leži grob vseh čustev, ki sem jih na tebi pustil ležati.. Da si mi vzela vse kar sem ti upal dati. Ker sem tako hotel. Ker si se mi igriva nasmihala med zahodi raznih barv, ki naredili so te lepo. Katerih lepa je svetloba padala na tvoje lice. Tisto, ki verjel sem jim, da nikoli konec ne bo sanj in časa, ko sem jih naredil za kraljice. Kraljice vsega. Svoj dom in kraj počitka, tega izza katerega se zdaj budim, ko maham ti s postaje. Dan med naju je prišel in s seboj prinesel tedne brate, ti pa leta, ki te bodo spremenila. Vendar veš, čeprav sem majhen, nepomemben in čas me bo izbrisal iz tvojih misli in spomina, da te ljubim. Da zate bom naredil vse. Napisal kje si bila, kako si mi dišala. Ne ugibal, kako bi lahko spremenil, naredil lepše ali ohranil trenutke, ko te še nisem poznal ampak bil tisti, ki opeval bo nase sanje. Tisti, ki v srcu nosil bo spomine nate. Ki bo otroku, ki te ni poznal v pesek risal tvoje oči. V pesek, ki je včasih bil kamenje teh zidov, ki so ščitili otroke tvoje (najine sanje). V pesek, s katerim se veter bo igral, kot pred časom s tvojimi lasmi. Pesek, ki premika čas, ki neusmiljeno te odnaša. "
In ta isti pesek, je gledal nekdo drug. Kot pred mano in njim še mnogi (lažem)


Ne vem, koliko so razumeli, kar si jim govorila. Ne vem in nočem vedeti, kaj vidijo na poljih, ki jih pokrivajo tvoji lasje, v glasbi, ki odmeva, kot tvoj glas v mojih sanjah. V obliki, ki spominja na inštrumente, na katere igrajo moje sanje.






"Stal na vruji sem in pil iz nje ljubezen in znanje,
v sebi našel tebe in spomine, želje in vse ostalo,
kar bi dalo mi še upanje, da bom kdaj ob tebi se še zbujal.

In ugotovil sem, da so (te iste tvoje) hiše kupi le kamenja
in strehe, leseni so tramovi.

Vse kar naredimo iz njih,
si naredimo sami.
Z željo, da bi te poznal(i).

Zato vem, kaj sem videl,
Vem, kje s tabo bil.
To bom vedno nosil s sabo,
tudi takrat, ko boš nosila drugega ime.

In igrivo kot danes
se spogledal bom s polji tvojega telesa
zrl v globino tvojih oči in sanjal.

Poznal sem te in ljubim te, sanje moje."

Hvala.

set gigants on fire

28.08.2008

The first appearance of danaja in the space and time of mediums...

why would u build a rocket?

and all those animals and funny looking creatures?
by someone for her that makes me cry:

I never met happiness…
Not in the way people think of it…

That common feeling of:"oh I’m so happy"
It always had to be something before it,
Or something after…
Either impossible or too beautiful to be true…

Searching for every remaining bit of me to give away…

Never cared for myself…
Like the child chasing the clouds
Drawing their shapes with a finger
Naming them after people I met…

Until she came along…
And then another and another…

Trying to figure out when this almost
Dervish like lullaby stops…
I'm sick…
Want to get out

But it keeps on spinning
When does the damn thing stop?
I know I entered it myself…
I was the one who paid the ticket
And said to the man behind the wheel
(That they call me) faster…
I said go faster I am bored…

Never believed that it would all of a sudden
Become too fast…

That the spins will become arms trying to
Push me off…

I loved too many people to jump off
Too many of them would be affected by my jump…

So what's left to do?
The only think is put on a childish smile
And grow your own dreams between the waves
Do dizziness that comes from the spinning
And it spins
And spins
Spins
I…
I…
I love u my next big thing…

So I build myself rockets…
Since you are my sun i figured i could follow u…
Make that small step for mankind
Resembling a leap for my rotten resembling heart shaped figure
In my chest…

And all the other animals in the background to form my kingdom…
Where eagles fly and scream her name,
Fishes make bubbles in the shape of hearts,
And birds round their necks in shapes of hearts…

But it's not love (of flying or diving in the ocean)
It's shear…

Fascination with the color of your eyes that I call my sky
With the sparkling freckles I call stars
And all the million little things I call you…


And my rocket flies:
»tell my wife I love her very much she knows
Ground control to Major Tom
Your circuit's dead there's something wrong«

Out of control…
And the path reminds me of her

of her body

J Doe (anaj)

we make something art or devine when we don't understand it

why a space program as a start?

maybe because we were always fascinated with the unknown, even with oblivion. so starting out with a complex system of orders and signs seemed the right idea. it’s the same question as: “why art?” and: “what is art?” after a while we are forced to realize that there is no answer to those questions. and there shouldn’t be. because if we try to answer those we force ourselves to analyze things starting from a starting point where we don’t actually even try to analyze the real structure we just presume that it’s not supposed to be understood. that’s the answer to why a space program. that’s the answer to why there’s no rural view of animals and other things but complex systems that force us to understand how things within them work.

mankind was always fascinated with traveling. a hundred years ago it was traveling through time, traveling to the moon. today it’s just time… or is it?

let’s take ikarus as a typical space program. are space programs really something that was meant to be known to every day people, or they should just be fascinated with the width and the way this shining rocket leaves for the big empty unknown called space? the same question is the one that for theoretical cosmonauts asked themselves. why should we divide thing to artistic and none-artistic, and why should we understand all of it. so that’s why ikarus was born. not as a mean to understand or even explain things but to raise even more questions. or to just fascinate people with symbols. so we exploit ikarus as a communication device. the way it’s designed it doesn’t really work as a communication device because it enables us to only send signals to it and never really get any feedback. which symbolizes every day systems. even if u call something democracy it doesn’t mean that u get a part in the decision making process. it just feels like you actually made something; that you were able to make a change. your vote either get’s lost in the majority or just doesn’t make it there. so that’s how Ikarus works. it uses the power we gave symbols that surround us. starting with a cross as the main sign. main starting with the way our perception of the space around us work all the way to the “one and only” religion. the materials used for the built are what we cal: “object trouve”. So they already bring their stories with them. those stories have their power so we start from using those. i guess it’s not finding a universal code in the understanding of the simplest formula:

sign + sign (keeping in mind the interaction between them) = system (reaction)

but it works more as trying to predict the reaction people have to certain symbols. so starting off from a cross that was taken from an old church and thrown away and later recuperated by danaja and used as a ready made object, or more a ready made story behind the object. i could talk about the chemical construction of iron but nature has it’s own way to change things. the cross was struck by lightning several times so it has a structure of it’s own. through our researches we tried to establish if it’s chemical structure was altered to but we could not figure it out so we were left with the myth that the cross functions in a totally different way than it used to, a thing that we discovered through the process. so it shows us a different layer of mythology behind the cross as a symbol.

an another layer was shown to the story of the symbols after the actual rocket was built, by a person that I deeply respect in terms of being an urban and suburban mythologist as well as a very good photographer. since there is no bleeding figure hanging on the cross we can’t really speak about the fallen angel or another fallen mythological flyer but we automatically tend to connect the cross to “Your savior Jesus Christ”. his image took a totally different place in my life since nat avino towsen pointed out the fact that he was supposed to come back and wondered if he wanted to be reminded all the time about the way he died? so my point is: does it mean that the original story of jesus christ being the first (or second, not really sure of the timing since both are just myths) mythological flyer? the answer is no. it just means adding another layer to the myth behind the rocket ikarus. or just letting it go by. as we do all the time. as our brain does all the time.

so the answer to the questions: “is it art and how do you expect people to understand it without an explanation?” would be, that no body expects people to understand everything. your brain is bombarded with 2.000.000, 00 information per minute. so the human body has developed a perfect system to defend us by forgetting certain things. so the whole project is just using other myths that u can not escape as fuel. as something that powers our rocket without knowing. subconsciously. and just from time to time turn on your TV and be fascinated with the theoretical flame that ikarus leaves behind as it goes across both the media and sub media space of your minds.

(iakrus is dedicated to the life and work of ing. jovanovič)

Ikarus- communication from space between space and time

"1 transmitter
10.000 receivers"

goebbels



our ever day life is surrounded by mass media taking the place of the main means of communication. every single medium works on the same principals. You have a transmitter on one side, and a receiver on the other. in between them u have air through which they try to send their messages. this forms the communication circle between them. the information that is being sent from the transmitter to the receiver must be a clear messages. so it's logical. use one transmitter and a receiver that decodes messages and u get communication. it starts to be hard as soon as u start to use different transmitters and receivers. or even replace the outer shape of the message.

so let's say art is a mass medium. the artist becomes a transmitter and the audience the receivers. they use visual pieces as means of communication. the transmitter has to analyze the range of his audience and the way they understand and receive information. this range is affected by the space and time in which the communication is taking place. by knowing the space in which we project our messages we can get to know and to understand what the average receivers is going to be and predict the reactions and actions to certain symbols. since art is a mass medium is always affected by the political system and the situations in all the system surrounding the audience. it works as a reaction to it or as an action against it. understanding the way people react to their sorroundings makes it easier to understand how they either understand or react to art in general or separate messages.

this fact shows that there is a need to have theory that connects and explains this actions and reactions. because understanding the medium and your audience gives u a wider view and a better chance to get your message across. the artist as the transformer has to understand the code and decoding system of the audience to communicate with them and at the same time understand the structure of the medium. every medium is composed by the medial (visual) part and the sub medial (theoretical) space. their job is to interact with the audience back to back. the understanding of this system enables the artist to use it when working on multimedia projects.

the information in the field of multimedia takes different shapes. they have to maintain an outer form that fits the demands of the audience. we have to remember that in the case of artistic communication the message isn't just a fictional message but has an outer form and it's seen all the time by the audience. this gives us a multi-layered system in which the information itself works on the same principal as the whole system. the information assumes the form of the system. this demands again the understanding of the whole system to help communication.

art works, or can be compared to several other mediums and systems. it's structure works on the princips of semantics, the communication with the audience or market works on the principals of economy. art takes, the same way that written language does, the smallest symbol (letter) and connects them between them. the way they react to each is affected by their outer shape and their information space as well as the negative space (surroundings). so the interaction between them forms a new complex symbol (word). this symbol in connection to others forms a picture (text). choosing the right way and means of communication (language) determines the number of people that are going to understand its message. on the same time symbols alone carry a message and have an outer shape of their own (outer shape of the text or single words) because they must fulfill the audience's need for an esthetic or non esthetic appearance of the symbols. for the understanding of that take the word house. you can not separate the word from the feeling it creates. or separate the vocal image of the word to the visual appearance of the word when you write it down. that shows that using symbols that u understand and analyze in a picture or any other form of art or visual communication media, you create and predict the reactions that your audience has. they, contrary to what the general opinion is, don't have to be esthetical, depends on the message that they are carrying.
the communication with the audience, on the other hand, is a relatively new approach in art. to understand that we have to look further back in the development of art and forms of artistic expressions. until the start of impressionism in the late eighteen hundreds art used to be a medium that would reflect and capture only every day moments. An artist would not produce paintings or sculptures by his own decision. most of the works were ordered by either rich families or the church. art wasn't a form of expression but was more a reflection of reality. This change was also a reaction to the development of photography. so art before that wasn't art as we understand it today (it's still hard to define and understand the meaning of the word art and what it represents). this doesn't necessarily mean that there were no artists before that just that they were more craftsmen. brilliant craftsmen. the fact that they were producing more or less ordered art gave them a very narrow choice of concepts to use.

knowing these facts helps to understand why art associated to economy. not only meaning the place or the fact that demand and consumption meet in a place but more the fact that even a very free orientated and open system as art is sometimes affected by the demand on the market. that makes modern art a perfect economical system that demands communication between space and time.