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Voor Emmy

Zijn het pluimen of bladeren
die ontsnappen uit je binnenste hartkamer
of is het de gloed van de kleur van kloppend bloed
hunkerend naar de stilte van rimpelloos

Als haar handen vloeibaar worden
krijgt de piano vleugels op het doek
Een boom verbijt haar vergezicht
In de diepte luisteren wortels verrukt
naar de zachte braille van haar bestaan
Tuinen hangen van de wolken
omlaag, omhoog groeien vreemde bloemen
uit een ingebeelde notenbalk.

Guido Vermeulen
14 november 2011

Muziek bij de video: Claude Debussy

maandag 4 juni 2012

A mail art dream


I am boarding a train, traveling from city to city. On the road other artists join us and we decide to alter the train into a collective art piece,
We are altering the train on a permanent base, constructing, deconstructing and reconstructing again.
We use wood, paper, metal, paint, all kind of tools.
On a certain moment the benches are nailed to the ceiling and we start painting the floor.
Then the benches go down again but we change the whole composition.
We are not sitting row by row anymore but in squares, circles, ovals, triangles.
In several connecting wagons we make our own maze.
New people board the train with new ideas and we change everything again.
We are not freezed in the past or in existing patterns or frameworks.
We have so much fun.
I hear one of Lavona’s grandchildren telling everybody: ART IS FUN.
(Oh, is she on the train 2?!)
Yes, we are all the living proof of that!

Where does this journey goes?
To the mail art village!

We arrive in a strange old village where people all wear clothes of the 18th centry and are reading mail art letters.
Where is your archive? I ask 2 old ladies.
Lady 1:
That’s the well behind us. It is a mail art well. It is full of art and letters we have received the last 250 years.
Lady 2:
It is a wonder well. It is also our Po Box. We drop in our own mail art and the earth takes care of transportation and destination.
They surface in other wells all over the planet.
The ladies in unison:
Yes, Make a well in your own garden or in your own village. You’ll see!
What about the post office?
Lady 1:
After the last privatization mailing art became outlawed and nobody or only a few people used the private service, so it closed.
Lady 2:
That’s why some us came up with the idea of the wells and it worked!
Lady 1:
We have several wells in the village. This is the Ray Johnson well, we have a Cavellini well.
2 giant African heads are popping from the houses and oracle:
Don’t forget the Cryptic one, the male giant head says.
The Carla Cryptic one, the femail giant head adds.
Are you from South Africa?
The giants in unison:
Are you nuts, we are from old Madagascar!
The 2 Ladies:
Oh you speak the language of the well well.
But that’s Malgache!
The giants:
We are the protectors of the wells and this mail art village.
I must be dreaming again or I am in paradise.
Can I ask for political asylum here?
Lady 1:
We don’t have such stupid procedures here!
Lady 2:
Just do some mail art and you are part of our village.
Me to the other passengers of the train:
Come on, let’s all do this!
The first who respond and act positively are my 2 cats who jump inside the well to play with all the mail art.
Buzz and Tarantino, where do you come from?
I do not remember taking them with me on the train but there they are.
The giants are smiling. The old ladies are making purring noises 2 to encourage the 2 male cats.
Everybody is applauding. The applause gets stronger and stronger and
I wake up from the noise, in bed and in Brussels and I have the mail art blues.

Guido Vermeulen, June 2012

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