*“Personal Things” is the first exhibition in the Year of the Lead series.
I remember everything, but not as my own memory. More like something from the side, seen in a movie, read. As if I had a transparent helmet on my head, a kind of helmet that protects me and separates me from everything. Its glass is clear, all the contours become clear and even more real. Kind of like waiting rooms, and kind of like corridors. Really long ones. I walk through them all alone. The hospital seems abandoned, as if some bomb exploded, but it is not destroyed. On the contrary, it is as beautiful as a sterile space station. Long rows of chairs fill the corridors. Because of the pandemics, these chairs are strangely arranged: every other chair is turned so that you cannot sit on it. Some have black crosses covered with tape. These corridors are very long. I walked three. And the colors. One red, one blue, one straw yellow. I go lava, I go river, I go resin. At the end is a sluice. I wait at the raspberry door. Someone comes out – I can only see the suit – and hands me a red garbage bag. He doesn’t say anything. And that’s it and that’s it and that’s it. I sit in one of the chairs, alone with the red bag, personal belongings in it. Another short visit to the morgue. Elvis Presley is playing on the radio, and cigarette smoke tints everything blue. I get the final signatures. Then I sit stupefied on a bench outside the hospital with the red bag.