I’m a product of what others have invested in me. The priority of parents, the automation of high school, being in love with university lecturers. In my parents are their parents in turn, their love, and their blindness. And so on, into the depths – it’s all the same. Every artefact from my ancestral tribe built me up. Each led to the unavoidability of my appearance. Every line of the letters of her lover to my mother crystallised her understanding of my future father. Proof by contradiction. All of it came together in one point – in me. I was deprived of the subjunctive.
The project is based on the letters to my mother. From different years, roughly from the 1960’s to the 1980’s. From friends, parents, and lovers. The archive was left to me when she died. In my family, it wasn’t the custom to read letters. Every generation asked the following generation to burn all their correspondence. But for some reason nobody ever did that. The letters were stored in a desk drawer. And I inherited them. Since my childhood I’ve been very curious by nature. I’d peek into others’ envelopes. I was told off for doing it. I felt ashamed. I’m still ashamed, but not so often, and not so deeply.
doc! #31 (pp. 151-177)