All after.

Over.

 

She wrote that they met. They found their spots and unpacked their stuff in different spaces. She told me they had lunch next to the pine. She says they worked some more, but too little. Then they walked. They walked to Kirchner’s grave and house. They walked back in the sunshine. They had dinner and they agreed to send me short messages about their day. She said that she would remind everyone. She said that was now. She sent me her best wishes from Hotel Europe.

 

In the sunshine I waited.

 

I read back.

 

The next morning, he sent me a photograph.

 

 

This was followed by another photograph.

 

I read back …

 

I was impatient. I expected more. I wondered if I had misunderstood. I did not reply.

 

A full report was transmitted: two days. It was written on the second day. The second entry was shorter than the first. En route he realised how much time he needed. He thought of the situation towards which he was heading as a time for incubation, and wrote of watering seeds, the shade, light, minerals that formed the metaphor of presence and joined intelligence. He found a space to continue to work, one in proportion to a body, testing the measured proportions, and covering everything with a gauze the colour of skin. He felt strongly about it but do not yet know why. He talked with others, knowing that interaction, like trust, was crucial. Trust was currency, current. He thought that walking was good for thinking, that is was good for sharing. He went to the Jewish cemetery and although he was moved, could not take a photograph, holding only fragments in his head that touched other thoughts. At dinner he talked with others. He started to write to me the next morning, but found that writing blocked him. He liked to find words and would prefer to talk. He wondered if he might call me. He had never liked the idea of writing a diary. He did not even like to report to himself what he felt and thought, feeling himself to be both accountable and unaccountable. Fuck, he wrote. He was looking for what was unsharp; he wanted to sense, not know, he did not want to understand. He repeated that writing often blocked him from making intuitive decisions. He liked fragmented facts, notions instead of knowledge. Perhaps he would call me the next day,

 

Read back.

 

He sent me a film. It turned. No, he turned. No, the camera turned. He was wearing a Hilfiger tee-shirt in blue. To his left was a pile of books, and he was reading from a paper placed on the on the table in front of him. He was in front of a window. Outside the wind blew through the trees. Some things, he said, did not work. Difference, rhythm, of rhythm, curatorial knowledge. There was a burning house, yes, the maison brulée filmed by Georges Bataille. Exhibit of fire, I missed this. Brand mark. Brand marking. Post irony. Irony of post irony. Utopian paradigm … imagination. I am trying to type as he speaks, as he spoke. A pinhole. Inside of another outside Line of flight, Unscheduled. Back to… yes, back to the outside… time, something about time, time drills? Studied exhibits. Verso of politics, no, versus of politics. The angelic messenger who has absolutely nothing … nothing to add. Politics of versus.

 

Say again.

 

The angelic messenger who has absolutely nothing … nothing to add.

 

Read back.

 

I waited another day, then another. There was a break in transmission. I could not send. I waited to receive. Silence. Dead air. The wind was still blowing through the green trees.

 

He wrote to tell me that my request, which he also called my challenge, was ‘in the air’ all the time. I was off air for which he chastised me, for some invested time and energy thinking about what to write or produce for me, or writing and producing for me. This was their precious time. They could have used this time differently. I did not acknowledge their reports I received. There was waiting on both sides: on air, off air.

 

He beat out a tune: This rhythm is for you. This rhythm is for you. This rhythm is for you. This rhythm is for you.

 

I did not know who was you. Moi ou toi. For me. For you.

 

Read back.

 

She wrote to tell me that she informed and that they all reflected on the idea of the radio transmission. Everyone was interested and into it, she said. But then later they were confused when there was no answer from me. Then, well, then, the present was more present.

 

From where could these messages come? The present has past. It always does.

Deux fois.

I repeat.

The present has past. It always does.

 

Read back.

 

OUT.