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.
Me:
Really?
The ladies in unison:
Yes, Make a well in your own garden or
in your own village. You’ll see!
Me:
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.
Me:
Are you from South Africa?
The giants in unison:
Are you nuts, we are from old
Madagascar!
Me:
ARAHABA
They:
SALAMA
The 2 Ladies:
Oh you speak the language of the well
well.
Me:
But that’s Malgache!
The giants:
We are the protectors of the wells and
this mail art village.
Me:
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.
Me:
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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