One has the costume of entering abandoned houses or forgotten places. There relies one charm of a kind, a paralyzed momentum in time and space, of everything that was but was not, of events pretended to be and meant never to happen, of facts never thought to occur but that, somehow, did happen. Places abandoned in forgetfulness and forgotten in abandonment.
Photograph by Carole R. Farell, obtained from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/semper-somnium/4774500973/
Frequently I wonder about who would had lived there, what would had happened, and never about what did happen. It is somehow about freeing that momentum’s potential through reflexive imagination, towards a present that actually is, and therefore, was and will be. ¿How many things haven’t we done at the shadows of cracked ceilings without being conceived in the structure, or much less, in the original plans? ¿How many (unplanned) events substituted planned events? ¿How many models didn’t emplace others? ‘Cause that’s what they are: structures where emplacement is given.
Is the magic of watching the twilight light entering between the crannies of cracked wood, through quartered or nevermore existing windows, through a matched or half-way closed door, touring the hallways and lighting “barren” spaces puffed with ghosts of that was meant to be. That historical moment. That history that was not, but that, in a way for those in presence of these ghosts, it is. One carries heavier memories than years, The General in His Labyrinth would be told. But…what memories? The ones that are not.
Photograph by Carole R. Farell, obtained from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/semper-somnium/4191418350/
It’s the aroma sticking to your flesh. It’s translated into the taste of sounds, and the latter turn into textures rubbing the touch. The momentum called Synesthesia dwells in there .
The fate of the never to befall befalls in the external subject, the one not planned to be there.
Abandones sites. Their beauty, indescribable. The presence, absent. The absence, present. Only inhabited by moments and ghost memories. A mounted theatre, the playful scene for the spectator to become performer.
By my house raise home structures abandoned in excess, one forgotten shooting range, unfinished or careless public works. I love accessing them, all kind of experiences inhabit there: get into a house you believed to be abandoned and discover, on top of the table, one cup of coffee still steaming warmth just beside an ashtray containing a smoke whose ashes fume still, and, not thinking it twice, run out holding your girlfriend’s hand; wanting to photograph another house, introducing yourself throughout the garden, and once there, discover a quarter of dogs on top of the roof barking to the intruder (you), so you decide to go away cautiously; spy what’s happening in that same house from he fourth floor of another abandoned house and photograph it from there; the kiss of a couple scaping home every midnight on top of the roof caressed by the flushed moon for what it witnesses; the musician’s house, showing a treble clef instead of the address number, whose interior keeps a recording studio and a room where musical instruments hanged out; discovering every “abandoned” house inhabited by workers and other people; finding out your dog is altered by entering to one of this places and refuses to sat there; ejaculation contests (with convincing evidence they took place); family members grafting wet cracked walls…
What the fuck, out the mentioned, was planned to happen? What events have come to substitute the planned events? Who are the ghost-people relieved by thirds alien to the firsts? ‘Cause all experiences are nothing but a tiny part of the theatrical composition, belonging all to one individual among a ten that had also entered the remarked sites. Experiences accumulate, individual and collective, among walls of strident silence, under the shelter of wind murmurs penetrating through everywhere and darkness as a whole. My friends describe their experiences in those places: so different, so alike nevertheless.
It’s about wondering for the nostalgia that is not nostalgia, for what happened never was, but that keeps it’s nostalgic character. To wear the mask of the ghosts. Discover on love for the enclosed by the aura between walls, fell like the freaky bug who enjoys these spaces. Even more, discover you’re not alone, that there are more like you discovering that and enjoying it in their way.
Ghosts that never were and were meant to be. Ghosts that were but were never meant to be. Is the mask of one ghost for and by another, a theatrical play where everyone masks as he wishes; that is how ghosts are masked.
1. “Synesthesia”. Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Synesthesia