Photo essay book with text from Yeal Elias. Israel
75 square meters
Text by Yeal Elias
I observed the white walls when I cleaned for the last time the apartment on Berlin street.
In the bright rays of August they seemed miserable of neutrality – ignorant of history. The present aesthetics blended with the smell of cleaning products enriched the alienating lineament of the event.
Yet I felt forcefully the lure of the wind which have been the Guru, sliding among the rooms.
Am I leaving all heartedly? I listened to it seriously, and the grey light from the next building accentuated it more intensely. An absolute positive after-taste, almost convincing.
The space becomes light so it could float in my memory at posterior moments, and to sink like snow and penetrate to the integrating tomb in another part of the consciousness.
Strange to think that this dying space was ever warm and cordial, a perfect host, through the turbulent tapping of the typing machine in the next room. Hundreds of tea cups and a boiler with hot water steaming with redemption from tough winters. Vivid piles of sleepless beer bottles soaked with hustle, gathering dust while waiting to be recycled. A colourful pony which was removed from some playground watches the entrance. A lintel that was proud of hight marks of tall visitors (among them my substantial lover in this apartment, 1.87 meters. It always made me feel him on my right side). A thousand thoughts. Two soul mates.
The alliance between me and the place does not dissolve, still it makes room to some kind of next step. As I sense the apartment breathes around me, I say a praise to a thousand nights I ran from into it, to the inside of it. Soon a lament of memorial stimulations will be inscribed as well on walls I will not look at again – in the image of hieroglyphs that correspond forever from within an internal darkness to an external light.
June 1, 2010