"Dust” by Gitte Sætre
C.Sundtgate 55 10. april, 2012.
wonder if I should turn on the light.
I need to sit down and explain what this is all about.
My eyes are swollen and I decide to turn on the light after all. I’m thinking that I shouldn’t have made that last pot of coffee.
Turning on the lights was a bad idea.
I turn it off again.
I get up to get some candles, put them on the table and stare out the window at the light, avoiding too much of it.
I ignore the houses, sea or the ships in the harbour, I only have time for the light.
I like this view. I feel better already and grab some coffee.
It tastes good.
It’s just right.
I look at my screen and increase the font to 200%.
It seems more balanced with 150 %, but bigger is better for my eyes and makes discovering mistakes a lot easier. My favourite font is Eurostyle, but this one suits the current text better.
I make many typing errors.
I right-click on my mouse and start correcting my mistakes; although I shouldn’t be spending time doing this now. I know it doesn’t matter, but writing wich instead of which makes me fear that I can’t write at all or don’t write well enough.
That I’m useless.
I decide to forget it for now.
I have to admit that I often postpone things to the last minute. Not as much as I used to. One such “thing” is defining my relationship to my mother, or what I’m trying to create in my studio.
I look at the text, and don’t like what I see. It’s too compressed, it annoys me.
I press apple A to give the lines more space.
I take a sip of coffee.
Suddenly I remember my old friend Camilla, who I met on the bus this morning. I like her. Maybe it’s time to rekindle the friendship from when we grew up together. She had an older sister who was a fan of The Cure.
I look at my text again.
Correct my mistakes.
Is right-click one word or two?
God, I’m going in circles. Can I see an end to this?
I’m stuck in a feeling that’s almost physical.
Is this just a bubble that will burst if I dare to face it, let go and move on?
Or am I afraid that if the bubble bursts, I won’t be able to move on?
Why does it seem so impossible to systematically face issues that only concern me?
I realize I’ve forgotten to light the candle.
I have a box of matches.
They are nostalgic and pretty.
In my whole life, they’ve always looked the same.
This reminds me that I’m not sentimental or nostalgic.
Other family members have occupied that particular position.
I am sure that the title of this project;”My Mother’s Dust” is bound to evoke sentimentality.
That’s not how it is intended. It’s the exact opposite.
”My Mother’s Dust” is my legacy from her, and her legacy from mothers before her.
Not a very cool legacy to be burdened with.
It’s a genetic legacy. I’ve inherited the gene for tidiness.
Where does this need to clean, to dust and to control insignificant things come from?
Do we rely on domestic control?
Are we burdened with an extreme need for harmony?
When I was 10, the same age as my own daughter today, my mother used to describe me to her friends as extremely clever at cleaning my room.
When she cleaned, she used to collect all the dust in a pile on the living-room floor and call for me to come and see. (I’ve always wondered why she didn’t call my brother!).
She had a loud voice and I recognized her tone.
Something was wrong!
Her voice told me there was something amiss. (I use the same voice to my own kids today.)
She really didn’t need to say much.
I could sense her – that was my field of expertise.
I could physically feel her periods.
I’ve become so clever that I refuse to be clever any more.
I knew that I was expected to bow my head, take a long look at the pile of dust on the floor, be ashamed, and make sure the pile was much smaller the next time she decided to clean.
At a certain point I decided to rebel against all her tidiness. I decided not to clean my room any more. I can’t remember how many days I rebelled against her, it was certainly short.
This is one of my memories I remember best. I remember what I was wearing, that I came home from school, and desperately needed to use the bathroom.
But before I went to the bathroom I decided to take a look at the mess in my room. I was overwhelmed by emptiness and before I knew it I had peed in my pants. This was my first self-destructive step.
I need to sit down and explain what this is all about.
My eyes are swollen and I decide to turn on the light after all. I’m thinking that I shouldn’t have made that last pot of coffee.
Turning on the lights was a bad idea.
I turn it off again.
I get up to get some candles, put them on the table and stare out the window at the light, avoiding too much of it.
I ignore the houses, sea or the ships in the harbour, I only have time for the light.
I like this view. I feel better already and grab some coffee.
It tastes good.
It’s just right.
I look at my screen and increase the font to 200%.
It seems more balanced with 150 %, but bigger is better for my eyes and makes discovering mistakes a lot easier. My favourite font is Eurostyle, but this one suits the current text better.
I make many typing errors.
I right-click on my mouse and start correcting my mistakes; although I shouldn’t be spending time doing this now. I know it doesn’t matter, but writing wich instead of which makes me fear that I can’t write at all or don’t write well enough.
That I’m useless.
I decide to forget it for now.
I have to admit that I often postpone things to the last minute. Not as much as I used to. One such “thing” is defining my relationship to my mother, or what I’m trying to create in my studio.
I look at the text, and don’t like what I see. It’s too compressed, it annoys me.
I press apple A to give the lines more space.
I take a sip of coffee.
Suddenly I remember my old friend Camilla, who I met on the bus this morning. I like her. Maybe it’s time to rekindle the friendship from when we grew up together. She had an older sister who was a fan of The Cure.
I look at my text again.
Correct my mistakes.
Is right-click one word or two?
God, I’m going in circles. Can I see an end to this?
I’m stuck in a feeling that’s almost physical.
Is this just a bubble that will burst if I dare to face it, let go and move on?
Or am I afraid that if the bubble bursts, I won’t be able to move on?
Why does it seem so impossible to systematically face issues that only concern me?
I realize I’ve forgotten to light the candle.
I have a box of matches.
They are nostalgic and pretty.
In my whole life, they’ve always looked the same.
This reminds me that I’m not sentimental or nostalgic.
Other family members have occupied that particular position.
I am sure that the title of this project;”My Mother’s Dust” is bound to evoke sentimentality.
That’s not how it is intended. It’s the exact opposite.
”My Mother’s Dust” is my legacy from her, and her legacy from mothers before her.
Not a very cool legacy to be burdened with.
It’s a genetic legacy. I’ve inherited the gene for tidiness.
Where does this need to clean, to dust and to control insignificant things come from?
Do we rely on domestic control?
Are we burdened with an extreme need for harmony?
When I was 10, the same age as my own daughter today, my mother used to describe me to her friends as extremely clever at cleaning my room.
When she cleaned, she used to collect all the dust in a pile on the living-room floor and call for me to come and see. (I’ve always wondered why she didn’t call my brother!).
She had a loud voice and I recognized her tone.
Something was wrong!
Her voice told me there was something amiss. (I use the same voice to my own kids today.)
She really didn’t need to say much.
I could sense her – that was my field of expertise.
I could physically feel her periods.
I’ve become so clever that I refuse to be clever any more.
I knew that I was expected to bow my head, take a long look at the pile of dust on the floor, be ashamed, and make sure the pile was much smaller the next time she decided to clean.
At a certain point I decided to rebel against all her tidiness. I decided not to clean my room any more. I can’t remember how many days I rebelled against her, it was certainly short.
This is one of my memories I remember best. I remember what I was wearing, that I came home from school, and desperately needed to use the bathroom.
But before I went to the bathroom I decided to take a look at the mess in my room. I was overwhelmed by emptiness and before I knew it I had peed in my pants. This was my first self-destructive step.
Tekst skrevet på vegg i utstilling:
C.Sundtsgate 55, 10. april, 2012.
Setter meg ned for å skrive om knuten i magen.
Malte den på veggen før påske uten å vite det.
Malte den også en gang i 2000 til min mor uten å vite det.
Alle de andre maleriene mine har vært som barnetegningene mine.
Konturer av pene prinsesser.
Jeg har skrevet tidligere også, men hver gang jeg har lest igjennom har jeg hevet det.
Litt usikker på om det har vært fordi jeg har funnet det pinlig, eller pinefullt å lese mine egne tanker.
Jeg var 17 da jeg flyttet hjemmefra.
Vandret rundt i Århus, København og Cholula, i selvpålagt eksil.
Nå er jeg 37, mor til 2 barn og sitter med samme hjemmeadresse som da jeg vokste opp.
Knuten er tilbake til utgangspunktet.
Hverken reising, røyking ellersr maleriet har knytt den opp.
Jeg jobber med det.
Det gjør vondt.
Forsvarsverket er blitt problemet, den gjør at knuten ikke løsner.
Jeg rydder i morstøvet
Hvem kan vite konsekvensene av sin forsvarsteknikk?
Gitte Sætre
C.Sundtsgate 55, 10. april, 2012.
Setter meg ned for å skrive om knuten i magen.
Malte den på veggen før påske uten å vite det.
Malte den også en gang i 2000 til min mor uten å vite det.
Alle de andre maleriene mine har vært som barnetegningene mine.
Konturer av pene prinsesser.
Jeg har skrevet tidligere også, men hver gang jeg har lest igjennom har jeg hevet det.
Litt usikker på om det har vært fordi jeg har funnet det pinlig, eller pinefullt å lese mine egne tanker.
Jeg var 17 da jeg flyttet hjemmefra.
Vandret rundt i Århus, København og Cholula, i selvpålagt eksil.
Nå er jeg 37, mor til 2 barn og sitter med samme hjemmeadresse som da jeg vokste opp.
Knuten er tilbake til utgangspunktet.
Hverken reising, røyking ellersr maleriet har knytt den opp.
Jeg jobber med det.
Det gjør vondt.
Forsvarsverket er blitt problemet, den gjør at knuten ikke løsner.
Jeg rydder i morstøvet
Hvem kan vite konsekvensene av sin forsvarsteknikk?
Gitte Sætre