Special Price €1200.00
Watercolor on 100% cotton paper
Measures 55 x 75 cm
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Travelers return from the city of Zirma with distinct memories: a blind black man shouting in the crowd, a lunatic teetering on a skyscraper's cornice, a girl walking with a puma on a leash. Actually many of the blind men who tap their canes on Zirma's cobblestones are black; in every skyscraper there is someone going mad; all lunatics spend hours on cornices; there is no puma that some girl does not raise, as a whim. The city is redundant: it repeats itself so that something will stick in the mind. I too am returning from Zirma: my memory includes dirigibles flying in all directions, at window level; streets of shops where tattoos are drawn on sailors' skin; underground trains crammed with obese women suffering from the humidity. My traveling companions, on the other hand, swear they saw only one dirigible hovering among the city's spires, only one tattoo artist arranging needles and inks and pierced patterns on his bench, only one fat woman fanning herself on a train's platform. Memory is redundant: it repeats signs so that the city can begin to exist.
My comment on the city of Zirma, which is described by Polo as a city filled with blind black men, girls raising pumas, lunatics threatening to jump from the tops of skyscrapers, obese women in subways, streets composed solely of tattoo parlours that have paper planes constantly whizzing by at street level. It seems a chaotic city, but it is redundant in its chaos. T When comparing notes with other travelling companions, Polo notes that they remember only “one dirigible hovering among the city’s spires, only one tattoo artist and so on” and concludes that memory limits itself in order for a city to exist. Without those exaggerated recollections, there is no story to tell. And when a city has no stories to tell, it ceases to matter.