Garden
Elisa Juri
Elisa Juri
1. A garden I can step on before my first coffee in the morning.
That only happens when I visit my mother 12,000 km far from here. And
even there, most times I'm caught in temperamental discussions before I
can make my way out to the soil.
2. A turned-private garden that was once and for something like 30+
years open. That makes something to my attire. The clothes I use at
home have always been a mixture of a costume and looser garments which I
–at ease– baptise pyjamas. Since I moved to this house and the garden has
been closed, my once-private costumes have extended their territory into the
semi-publicness of the situation. Sitting on a sunny Sunday outside, with friends
of friends (strangers,) I suddenly notice what I'm wearing doesn't make sense
–when did I make the choice to cross over the territory of what was intended
as my intimate performances to those who speak near. It isn't clear.
3. Brown leaves –who knows how many layers of Autumns.
One hot day –perhaps the informal inauguration of summer– we brush them all out.
Such physical out-springs start to become unusual. I blame it on the
previous lethargy, or the exteriorisation of a deeper process. Still without name.
4. A see-through purple veil versus a not-well-isolated window:
The garden extends subtly into my space; the
short arms of my intimacy stretched into it's leafy shadow. A
persistent symbiosis. Inside and out. Again, the borders become unclear.
5. Privilege: term initially used to denote individual exceptions
from the law. Derived from the Latin words privus (private)
and legis (law). How may the privileged think about their situation?
They cannot think about it honestly and without self-delusion.
(Simone De Beauvoir, 1955) Since the main language I hear you
speaking from my window is German and my German only works when
at least three-parts of my full brain are dedicated to it, the delusion
becomes double, triple even.
.
That only happens when I visit my mother 12,000 km far from here. And
even there, most times I'm caught in temperamental discussions before I
can make my way out to the soil.
2. A turned-private garden that was once and for something like 30+
years open. That makes something to my attire. The clothes I use at
home have always been a mixture of a costume and looser garments which I
–at ease– baptise pyjamas. Since I moved to this house and the garden has
been closed, my once-private costumes have extended their territory into the
semi-publicness of the situation. Sitting on a sunny Sunday outside, with friends
of friends (strangers,) I suddenly notice what I'm wearing doesn't make sense
–when did I make the choice to cross over the territory of what was intended
as my intimate performances to those who speak near. It isn't clear.
3. Brown leaves –who knows how many layers of Autumns.
One hot day –perhaps the informal inauguration of summer– we brush them all out.
Such physical out-springs start to become unusual. I blame it on the
previous lethargy, or the exteriorisation of a deeper process. Still without name.
4. A see-through purple veil versus a not-well-isolated window:
The garden extends subtly into my space; the
short arms of my intimacy stretched into it's leafy shadow. A
persistent symbiosis. Inside and out. Again, the borders become unclear.
5. Privilege: term initially used to denote individual exceptions
from the law. Derived from the Latin words privus (private)
and legis (law). How may the privileged think about their situation?
They cannot think about it honestly and without self-delusion.
(Simone De Beauvoir, 1955) Since the main language I hear you
speaking from my window is German and my German only works when
at least three-parts of my full brain are dedicated to it, the delusion
becomes double, triple even.
.