They’re in the midst of setting up an antique market in my campo.
Ten years ago I was a student and I lived in Venice. While I was here I made books, and prints and I wrote a lot. I wrote mostly about what it was like to be here, ten years ago as a student.
Time passed. I lost most of the things I wrote to the transience of digital technology, lost files, lost words, lost memories.
Ten years passed and I returned to this place where I was a student. And I started to remember things you can only remember when you re-walk the streets you haven’t seen in ten years. And then a month passed and I could no longer forget the things I had previously forgotten about here. The tiny dogs, the smells, the sights, the sounds and tastes.
Then today I was making a pot of tea in the studio. And I looked up and I saw a tangle of words on cut strips of paper. And then I remembered that I had made them. A tangled set of stories that I wrote when I was a student here and then cut and hung from the ceiling. And then I started to read the stories and i started to remember more about what it was like to be here in my twenties.
Ten years ago I hung this paper that became a memory only because I had access to it again ten years later.