Hanging Stories
„Hanging as a lack of gravity – when there is nothing to hold you on the ground, the separation from it somewhere above, somewhere beyond. To hang clothes, memories and seasons on a hanger and let them freely waving in the wind, go out of the frame and get back to it, because the snowdrops already are blooming. Starting the spring cleanings of Soul, worship the removal of winter clothing, the invasion of oxygen – time to breathe, time to sweep the snow away. Later in the summer – hanging again – dresses leave bodies, the eternal cycle of changing and redressing, the long hours in the bathroom, the short drying time. Nudity is just cause for flirting, time to rest for the bodies before the invasion of autumn. Again returning to sadness, nostalgia and the places where we were, where we will never be. Clothes and people already have their scars, quince fall into dry grass – brown garden of loneliness, where we ramble, where we return every fall. But there comes the white – paper cranes head South, the clothes are the last refuge of people, and so day after day, until the next spring.“
Vladislav Hristov
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