SOLO EXHIBITION - In My Mind

In My Mind
@Sanatorium Gallery

Last night, I washed the corpse we carried on our backs. I regretted it the moment I threw the bones into the tub, but it was already too late. I first chose the cleaner (older) ones; they were easy because the fibre-like fluffy bits that connect the joints had dried away. These easily washable bones had no lumps of soil mixed with blood and coalesced with the bone, from within which worms that had stiffened in the water appeared.

Before I began, I steeped the bones in warm water with vinegar. Then I added some bleach. In the meantime I cooked spaghetti. I swiftly swallowed up my pasta with garlic tomato sauce. And I thought: “There’s a dead horse in the bathtub, and my stomach couldn’t care less”. Then I drank a cup of coffee. When I had nothing left to waste my time on, I rolled up my sleeves. I put on my lemon-scented pink gloves and the apron Gümüş gave me. A while later, I looked for something like a mask, but couldn’t find anything suitable. Then I remembered what you said yesterday when I persistently wanted to learn the time of the island ferry: “You love playing it safe!” but I forgot about the mask, how about that?

Now as I recount this, the places where the corpse water splashed on my face are burning. I insist on calling it a corpse, yes; a dead horse, it was a corpse. It lay in my bathtub, torn into parts. The parts were then lined up on the black bin bags I spread out on the floor. Now they looked like remains from an archaeological excavation. I immediately took photographs of them as if it was a great deal. This time they had turned into seized ammunition; bullets large and small, hand grenades, pistols and Kalashnikovs.

A picture of what I am and what I will become;
the cartilage of the finger pressing down on the shutter button, a heap of bones brushing the pelvis…

I listened to Chicha Libre’s album Sonido Amazonico as I wrote this. The stove was burning in the studio. It was the 7^th of April, and it was cold like winter outside.