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The memory is
of an installation, the
projected
faces and a few
words, chalked on the floor
of some
gallery. I admire
this work, because even
a part of life
is difficult to hold
in any
defined way. If there are
still histories to
collect, they
can be found in the events
that memory holds, the
images which
are sometimes firmer. It
should be possible now
to make
yet another work of
transformation, given all
the still gardens
and buildings, the public
spaces out of which
no sense
of occupation rises. Perhaps
it might,if they were seen
to once have contained
life, but I
can watch for days
and not
bring in anything for
the notebook, the sheet
left in my
typewriter. This text
is based
on an installation. The
projected faces
dissolve.