grief is like jet lag, but one that lasts for at least two years. during the first year, with over 10 symptoms, I would barely leave the room. once in a while, attracted by a yellow here and there (yellow has been my assistance dog when the only thing the eye saw clearly was my own tear), I’d move the pieces around making hybrid pairs, surely dissatisfied with this new and unparalleled reality –– unique –– I’ve said to myself, as I’d pair chair and headdress, taxidermy mantis and painted onions. this way, from whatever the objects suggested and what the flying nano camera would inspire me to write, assemble and photograph, I’ve gone from still-life to winged objects.
Says author Cláudia Ahimsa in a post-script note in Winged Objects. This project contains poems and photographs that lovingly review the poet’s period of mourning. Preciously stored in a case: loose pages with numbered poems so as not to get messy in a tiny yellow inked box. Light as a feather.
all I’ve had and still have in common with Gullar is here: the poetry that brought us together, the art that expands us beyond the obligation to die. while dedicating me sketchbooks, books, poems, paper jewellery, he knew sooner or later it would all fly.
still, even in a delirious frame of mind, Van Gogh couldn’t imagine in 1889 his yellow flower transformed into a helipad for a mini yellow drone.