look what i found in the bins: a whole stack of old chinese books! the paper is yellowed, the pages are thumbed, the covers are torn and mended with sellotape ... someone must have loved these books. maybe one of the villagers had passed away and they were thrown away carelessly. they are art encyclopedias and reference books for plants as well as buddhist scriptures - all of my favourite topics!
these books are not 'on time' anymore, but they tell time. in a way they are in themselves a visualization of time. how come so much accumulated time isn't worth anything anymore? now these books are at my studio awaiting a new life. while my son is sleeping, i start drawing on the yellowed pages with chinese ink. he is still moving in his sleep so i have to be quick. which is disappointing at times (when not being able to finish) but it also forces me to omit the unnecessary and reduce the image down to one line. while drawing on this paper, the story of someone gets layered over another story.. sleep over death.. the lines cross .. ink dissolves into printed writing, you can't tell which is which anymore. this is the mystery of life: we mingle.. coincidences happen.. unexplainable.. they shape ourselves.. we shape them.. many layers.. many times.. the concept is too blurred for the mind to grasp.. but we can feel.. it.