What am I doing here, in the side-streets, once again? I was astounded when I saw the pictures of Kleanthis Christoforidis Street. Though it wasn’t exactly the pictures I was seeing: it was the frightened scent of abandoned life—still standing tall—, the petrified touches. Living stones, unliftable native lands. The other-time body of the city now lies on the borders, filled with imperceptible frontiersman-sighs. The borders are the fingertips, the community’s sense of touch; homesickness and guilt. But the sky is blue, and the clouds are bright white.
Here, in the trench, everything is immortal: both the living and the dead.
It is this crevice I have in mind and the blue-white sky above it.
The stronger the sun, the darker –the blacker—our shadows in its presence. A few days later, Tassos sent me pictures of the adjacent road, propped-up by bracing pillars, to prevent the collapse. ‘Freedom Street’. The title reversed for the exhibition. Remembrance in the era of forgetfulness. So, I’ll make a stop to light a candle, from that little flame that screeches in the joints…for the sake of our need, that doesn’t have a name.
