Opening: 3.11.09, 19.30
Future Perfect: 3-28.11.09, Athens Art Gallery
Don’t pick it up. Leave it there as it is. By the time it goes bad because of the rains, I’m going to have imagined it being there, in the wind. It is my fruit, my truth. I don’t need to eat one more truth. This is different though. You can recognize it, cannot you? From its peculiarity, this red scar on the peel. I will have told myself one sad story more by the time you turn your back. All the time elapsed in one and only sign; in one scar. My apple will have lied on the grass by the end of its life; Free and alive with a scar but without cupola; neither waiting for taxes nor for sex. It is just an apple. You never expect much from an unprotected apple, do you? No wonder if two butterflies came on it later, in an attempt to make it roll down to the river. There are no wonders for me and you anymore. There is only time for us; time together and separate time. You can go, don’t worry. Take your time. I will have been here. I will have kept the red image of the apple in my mind by the time you come back from the supermarket. You are so lucky indeed. You go out and new things may meet you; new products. Don’t be bored. Fix your shoestrings and go. Open your mouth to the adventure. And don’t forget to bring my new pills from the pharmacy. I am going to have my mouth open for the regular dose. Be sure that I am going to behave. You know how to make me open my lips. Go, I say. I will be fine. Images will be by my side. I will have invented some new to feel the power, grasp their power for my skin by the time the bell rings and your face appears again. I will have created stories to accompany my body staying in this chair; I will have been safe in my stories, by the time you knock the door. Red hair is alert waiting for you. I will not have my coffee finished when you return and ask me again if I want to have my hair dyed in a different color. No, thank you. I prefer red. My head could be like a red tulip and as you know, tulips stay intimate and polite. They never ask much from others. They are not roses demanding and commanding so that the whole thing is given to them. Besides, there is no whole thing. The whole thing is a lie. There is nothing but a hole in the fruitful mind that tries to replace the space with new space. Future perfect is a lie. It is nothing more than all that the mind thinks about. We never know if it is going to be this way. We never know if you are more than an inner voice; and who knows if this is a wig to hide my head from its dead spit light in the dining room.