It’s been only 4 days since the residency has come together as a group in cyprus, and it feels like these endeavours and cultural exchanges are works-in-progress, which started in ‘some’ distant past. A whiff from a NY past has blended in with a heavy history whose nostalgia transpires on the pavements, sign posts, relics, souvenir shops, on locals’ faces. In this present time i’m writing other’s stories, but also mine in them. Is a story ever a single story? Others crawl into them.
Here comes a dialogue of coffee spills on newspapers; (speaking of Jim Jarmusch’s vignettes over – ‘coffee and cigarettes’) Lindsey likes to fuel coffee and its remains into tipping metaphors; embroidered polaroids of living characters are developing from embroidered NY Times obituaries, for Christine; Sharon’s Aunt Jemima’s oozing over-sweetness promises to ‘teach’ us how to make very ‘simple’ yet transforming pancakes – ‘(b)cake me and you’ll dream’ll come true’. And Percussionist Heleniq reflects on the untold news of our bodies, while Kakia prepares us for an aromatic ceremony of jasmine tea and mirroring head scarfs, welcoming tradition in a new way. Constantia is painting very female parts of our bodies figuring out the colours and textures of the daily news of pregnant days. Eser and Gökçe are reconstructing their grandmother’s long life, who, although passed, continues to influence their own lives. Julie cannot fathom how the news can still be confined to static forms and box-y images. Is a story ever a single story?
