This constant fatigue must be the most tiring aspect of my existence.
The stress I am feeling is like a grid between my brain and my skull,
pressing down and expanding in turn.
I sometimes see painting as a cloudy lump that exists outside my head.
Or sometimes a painting fits neatly in my lap,
marking the boundaries of my own body.
Its surface feels like whipped berry porridge.
I can’t stand the humming noise in my studio—or could
the noise be immersive or somehow receptive?
Glue turns into flypaper and becomes stuck with the surrounding dust,
the drawing and my fingers. I may start seeing shapes
and limbs (limbs, or landscapes, always seem to appear).
The works are playing a game of Chinese whispers with each other.
I try to listen to what they have to say.
I have been told: “You need to cut down the I feel like parts.”
But what if it could all be about a tired and fragile body,
about feeling, warmth, intimacy or vulnerability?
I suppose the focus of my thoughts is on being present,
or in slowing down
maybe a touch of playfulness could also tag along
I’d like to mess around a little
Pillows are close to my heart.
Milla Aska, 1993, Sodankylä
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