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further sessions of Bosnia-journey                                                                                                                                                       first Artist in Residence of www.atlantis-kulenvakuf.com

 

     
Angel of the old factory

(Bosanski jezik/English/Deutsch) 

 

 Falls of Strbacki Buk ... become a deer

(Bosanski jezik/English/Deutsch) 

 Kiting Una Ostrovica Childīs Waterfall            The dollīs story  

(Bosanski jezik/English/Deutsch)     

 

 

The Dollīs Story 

documented in April 2014            Bosnien Version           German Version             

            I realized the doll at the first session in the plant.

From that moment on I knew, there was another job waiting for me.

I knew, this was important and this was going to be hard.

So it took me 4 days to encourage myself to get into it.

And first I made the Baby-sessions and the Angle-session.

But all the time, she was waiting for me, patiently.

Until the last moment, some hours before my flight back left.

 

Watch the dollīs - session.

 
 

 

 

 
Bebi, War came to an end

since then things have decomposed, otherīs have become alive.

Animals take possession of the desolated, deserted rooms.

Corridors silent

Drops are falling

Behind the sound of rain the sewing womenīs voices seem discernible.

Hundreds of them.

 

 

 
                          

 

The fingers of perception grope over blotty mirrors. Overhte carcass of a fox, or perhaps of a little dog, one of those left behind, not allowed to follow someone else anymore. And it chose the last privy to die, just as if it still belonged, as if a loving hand had furnished a bucket for him out of rags and calculation-chits.

As if it owned something worth dying for.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 
                  We grope on over empty nests, cracks in the wall, rotting heaps of paper, untill we reach the toppled storage rack. Underneath it, as you know, as you realized some time ago, there lies the doll. Just a torso, her hand nearby, a leg somewhere else. She lies on her face and on the back of her head some mosses grow, covering with feathered fingers.

As if the delicate plant intends to honor her like somthing organic, because she is accursed never to decay: "You too, little dress form, may sleep yourself into earth again."

 

The angle passes by.

 
 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 
               

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 
                 

Eyes

without lid

without blink

without tears

see all,

innocent

accoursed

by an awful God.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                

 

 

 

 

 
 

 
                

 

I lift her out of the refuse, I do not clean her. One eye covered with dirt, the other wide opened, strange clear, perfect created - like humans sometimes do.

Lips are smiling and closed, Episternum covered by a meandering pencil line, undecipherable message.

Her arms are still attached to the torso by a thread, without shoulder joints they are dangling around in bizarre movements. Inside a tiny little spider has made her home, giving it up because of my disturbance.

 
 

 

 

 

                              

 

 

 

The doll - 

I take her with me, 

she takes me with her,

to every room of the former plant. 

Once there were 500 women sewing

 

until

all changed.

 
 

 

 

 

 
            

And she is telling me her story.
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

          
 

 

 

 

 

 
             
 

 

 

 

 

 
                  
 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 
                         
 

 

 

 

 

           

                               
 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
                     
 

 

 

 

 
                                             
 

 

 

 
            
 

 
 

 

 

 

 
                                                 
 

 

 

 

 

 
            
 

 

 

 

 

 
             
 

 

 

 

 

 
                                           
 

 

 

 

 

 
               
 

 

 

 

 

 
                                      
 

 

 

 

 
                                             
 

 
               
 

 

 

 

 

 

 
             
 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 
 

 

 

             

 

 

 

 

 
                                           
 

 

 

 

 

 
            
 

 

 

 

 
                               
 

 

 

 
                                 
 

 

 

 

 
              
 

 
             

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
                        
 

 
                                                  
 

 

 

 

 

 

 
                   
 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 
                    
 

 

 

 

 

  

 
 

 

 

 

 
                   
                                        
 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 
                                       

 

 

 

She has finished her story.

Something she has given to me.

Something I have given to her.

And so much has been lost forever.

But is it not this which turns her into some kind of you?

 
 

 

 

 

 

 
I put her down into a small areaway, between growing plants. May there be roses, too!

She lies there face up, so that the rain can clean her, wash her eyes so that they can watch heaven. An eternal smile into a little piece of infinity, only interrupted by some insects and birds. And some clouds may finally give her tears.

The tears will flow down her cheek, along the mosses at the back of her head and finally into the soil to the roots of blackberries and wild grapevine, and they will overgrow the doll, gradually.

 

 

                      

 

 

 

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