Nobody listens anymore. I can’t talk to the walls because they’re yelling at me, I can’t talk to my wife; she listens to the walls. I just want someone to hear what I have to say. And maybe if I talk long enough it’ll make sense. And I want you to teach me to understand what I read.
Ilmārs Blumbergs, Books of Venice (2003), Drawing, paper, ink, charcoal, pencil
[more info. about the books here]
“A Picture breaks down a digital photo into its component parts, the source code. The entire body of information contained in the now indecipherable picture is bound into a book.”
Ruben Aubrecht, In Other Words…? A Picture (2004), 253 pages
F. Dostoyevsky: C. and P., pages 57/58 (Penguin Popular Classics) [+]
Vittorio Santoro, Pencil on paper (partially burned), 2007
Even books, word-things that should be judged by their content, fascinate me as objects. I confess I have many books in my library that I have never read nor had the intention of reading. I want them because their sheer presence represents a yearning, a mood, a love, and yes, an act of self-preservation. When my eyes scan my library, the typefaces of the titles, the textures of the covers, and their imagined weight give me a moment very like the pleasure of reading.
Based on a diary entry by the Russian poet Daniil Kharms
[more info. on a free .PDF here]
o.T. (Today I wrote Nothing / Daniil Kharms), Natalie Czech (2009) [+]
Bertrand Fleuret — via & more — site
[you can download the whole .pdf file]
“I am alone. Walking at random. Wandering, as if at random,...
Peter Upward.
August Strindberg.
From The Lodger, Alfred Hitchcock, 1927.