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Olejnikov's art
Posted on 2012.07.16 at 21:33
The problem with photography is that it is, at heart, always a lie. Snapshots from people's lives presented as if they leave captured some fundamental truth, something irrefutable, about an individual. As if the moment frozen was something to be remembered rather than forgotten instantly.

The walls of the apartment were littered with mementoes. Photos of the children and her parents, knick-knacks and gifts presented in good faith and teenage boredom. At the end of the day none of them held any real value. Not even sentimental. She kept them because it was expected that she would. Keeper of a sanctuary the children gained comfort from dismissing. "

"Well of course mother rattles about the flat like a pin. Christ knows why she doesn't find somewhere smaller."

"Have to downsize of course. Get rid of some of those fucking doilies."

The doilies were a product of a late seventies craft class. A stepford-like series of evenings where they'd waved goodbye to husbands and children, upped crochet hooks, and got smashed on sweet potato wine from the Korean delicatessen five blocks over. There were things, after all, to be said for ethnic diversity.

It was the wrong place to be if you were Welsh. The only place blacker than the vale of Glamorgan. Too many angry-friendly faces. She should have pushed harder for some sunken valley where she could have installed net curtains and twitched them at passers by. Spent her days concocting elaborate vendettas against her neighbours and made her mother proud.

The first photo as you came in was of Dai. Ironically named as it turned out. She's heard more than one school yard mother remark on it when they though she was too sunk to notice.

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