historical revisionism
by anna missed
8×10 color photograph
(bigger)
Back to Main
July 21, 2007
Historical Revisionism
Comments
b,
Yeah, thats my hand reaching into the past – and she seems to have noticed.
beq,
Now that you mention it, reminds me of one of yours too, funny how that works.
What I did’nt notice when I took the picture, is how she seems exposed to the street and looks humiliated by it.
Posted by: anna missed | Jul 21 2007 19:50 utc | 4
Work of art.
So near, tempting, but so far away.
Posted by: Cloned Poster | Jul 21 2007 21:47 utc | 5
Well, to be honest, this one doesn’t move me as other of your work has, however, I’m digging the mirror reflection theme you got going on. Is there a official name for that? Did you make that up or is that a classic technique I don’t know about?
No matter, any art is cause for celebration. Drinks! , Barkeep, round for the house including yourself 😉
Posted by: Uncle $cam | Jul 22 2007 0:13 utc | 6
clever. bet you could squeeze an entire figure in there between the vehicle & the subject and really change the context.
Posted by: b real | Jul 22 2007 6:12 utc | 7
Glad to see some more of anna missed art.
We are a gallery as well as a salon!
Posted by: jonku | Jul 22 2007 9:51 utc | 8
digging the hand after a good night’s rest which incl. visions of bunuel’s exterminating angel
Posted by: b real | Jul 22 2007 16:22 utc | 10
three hundred and fourty nine
you waited for me by the wall and you asked me to dance. that was when i was blind. so we danced very close because we hardly knew each other in the way necessity demands in the night of nights when we sing the song of songs.
three hundred and fifty
my breath was taken away. it never came back. i do not know where it was sent but i know others will recognise it because it was halting and still full of hatreed. too much. but that is the way that things are. ah my god that is the way things are. that was the last remnant.
three hundred and fifty one
i will write an imaginary autobiography in which you will feature as a noble historian hating all the facts that are presented to you so you invent your own. that would be sufficient subject for scholars for a long time. it will keep them happy.
three hundred and fifty two
we were winning when it all started to be built in the image of a man we once knew. someone we met at the docks when we wanted to go over the ships to see the sight of human labour lost in the waves that brought them to this place. it is the look you have in those waters that takes me back. all the way.
three hundred and fifty three
in every city i could find empty streets i also found you reading a journal in which i had contributed an article on our assets. they were not much. even then. they would amount to more. when we woke and waved to the astronomers from our window. in the dark. in the dark.
three hundred and fifty four
sealing the letters in a summer i can barely remember while it is raining heavily outside in this ancient town. insolent i stood outside pretending i was person you wanted to meet. even then i was sinking like a beautiful boat in an empty ocean.
three hundred and fifty five
you can do whatever you want. seeking a solution somewhere. seen by sea. days of desolation. nights when dread determined every dance i choreographed. on thos nights i developed an expertise i had never desired. it is a long hard road though i would walk up and down it in a day.
three hundred and fifty six
innocence was an art articulated when the flags were being raised over buildings in a city where i was travelling through on my way backwards. going to grave. learning a legend. here and there. i betrayed nothing. of any worth you want definition. i am not able to give it here. nothing to say except it was written once as a theory of surplus value. he gave it clear and profound description still not lost on me who is lost on everything. returning to rage is a talent and perhaps my vice.
three hundred and fifty seven
surely some sentimentality over dates should come to me today. it is october and in another city they are trying to repeat events that occurred so long ago we now name it antiquity. preferring a period in history when it was posible i try to predict futures that might have occurred in the past. i will die trying.
three hundred and fifty eight
neither nostalgic nor nearer to that point that i best denied here on paper i am collapsing cathedrals into a notebook. that is an architecture i can understand. hopefully you will not. that is what is called betting. in another time. in another place. when we used rhetoric to get us into a labryinth. that time was eternaal or so we believed. deception too dissapeared into immutable inventions we would construct for our enquiry. it is still. still not over.
three hundred and fifty nine
speculating about song i am singing at the top of my voice. sacrificing all sense i sought meaning. a useless exercise. perhaps a philosophy you can make use of when you are too tired to repeat regret. when i went to war i noticed you standing by door and clapping my movement away from you towards something certain. that is how i remember. a few steps down that road i fell to the ground under the weight of books i was trying to carry to that place. no helped me up so i crawled across a continent whispering your name and i was fed in one place or another though i had to tell a tale that would get me out of the door. inch by inch. it was a deliberate march if you could call it that. steps so slow i could see the fire had gone out of their eyes. whoever they were – they were not me nor were they you. at some location i was pulled inside to a dwelling where i was a source of humour and derision to the inhabitants. yes they fed me and gave me fluids. it was their own. their shit and piss. brought to me in buckets. i ate and drank until i could eat and drink no more. then it was decided i had to move on so i was kicked out on a street. often there were no signs. not any i could use for direction. i would grab solid statues and climb on an arm or a horse. whatever there was. from those monuments i could see where i had to go. not far but too far at any moment. i would fall from those memorials and i would make my move. to wherever it was that i was going. there were towns of course that had my face emblazoned on banners and flags and i would be taken to meet the high and mighty. i found their excrement all the same. difference i could deal with at that time or any other. sometime later or it could hav been earlier i arrived. wherever that is is still am.
three hundred and sixty
you are talking to me sophistacted and suspicious making a sound that i have to interpret into a signal that i may have to send. printed pages pour from your mouth and words watch their slow dance to destiny’s shallow grave. that is somewhere. in my heart.
three hundred and sixty one
i will give account of all this in my country amongst the ruins whenever you want though i will not be able to speak as loudly as i can here. this is no surprise. i am gifted at whispering these truths. preparing a plan for another excavation with the gypsies. we will make our fortune. it willl come with a reading list where your name features prominenty. my own name has been erased.
Posted by: remembereringgiap | Jul 22 2007 18:54 utc | 11
two hundred and ninety five
they say you are going to find me. i am most interested in my own whereabouts. this place where i stay is so far from the roads and rivers – i do not know how you will get here. when you do – i wonder how you will recognise me since everyone here is going in the same direction. that is to say we are all falling. that is the first condition for standing up straight for whatever that is worth.
Posted by: remembereringgiap | Jul 22 2007 19:11 utc | 12
three hundred and fifty seven
surely some sentimentality over dates should come to me today. it is october and in another city they are trying to repeat events that occurred so long ago we now name it antiquity. preferring a period in history when it was posible i try to predict futures that might have occurred in the past. i will die trying.
Or frame 12 or frame 32 (if I’m lucky) in my world. So glad you posted this, an epiphany of sorts, for me, about you. And revolutionary process.
Posted by: anna missed | Jul 23 2007 8:16 utc | 13