Tina Langenbach Photography | Projection Art Series
Your words run down my throat, dissolving my shame. The obscured, the denied, the unspeakable. The taste of the wine of the bitter truth. The corrosive words. I’m choking. Your weakness, my rescue.
Art series, photography, photo, art, Tina Langenbach, projection, varberg, halland, sweden, sverige
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Dwelling

My head is full of thoughts, old and new, sorted like books in a library.

Consisting of chapters and episodes.

Some thoughts are difficult to find space for. Finding the right genre.

Others I try to push into the shelves where I know they belong,

but they refuse to stay.

 

They fall out and end up, with flattened sides, visible in my head.

Thoughts that are like the pictures in a pop-up book.

Thoughts I feel ready with.

Thoughts I want to leave,

but they do not leave me.

 

Page after page.

Texts of guilt or wrongdoing is laid out.

I tear out the pages, throw them away, and put the book back in place.

The torn out pages takes form of a bird that presses air underneath

the wings and lifts.

 

The fleeting thoughts, colored by the purple of suffering, revolve around my head.

Constantly in my presence during the day and watching at my bed at night.

The bird is impossible to catch and impossible to get rid of.

Run out of my own head.

Nursed of my own consciousness.

 

In due course, the wings will wear out.

They are torn apart and lose their shape.

Losing its ability to operate on its own.

The thought becomes manageable and I can straighten it out.

Remaining a crumpled sheet again to re-sort.

Dwelling

My head is full of thoughts, old and new, sorted like books in a library.

Consisting of chapters and episodes.

Some thoughts are difficult to find space for. Finding the right genre.

Others I try to push into the shelves where I know they belong,

but they refuse to stay.

 

They fall out and end up, with flattened sides, visible in my head.

Thoughts that are like the pictures in a pop-up book.

Thoughts I feel ready with.

Thoughts I want to leave,

but they do not leave me.

 

Page after page.

Texts of guilt or wrongdoing is laid out.

I tear out the pages, throw them away, and put the book back in place.

The torn out pages takes form of a bird that presses air underneath

the wings and lifts.

 

The fleeting thoughts, colored by the purple of suffering, revolve around my head.

Constantly in my presence during the day and watching at my bed at night.

The bird is impossible to catch and impossible to get rid of.

Run out of my own head.

Nursed of my own consciousness.

 

In due course, the wings will wear out.

They are torn apart and lose their shape.

Losing its ability to operate on its own.

The thought becomes manageable and I can straighten it out.

Remaining a crumpled sheet again to re-sort.