when you ain't got no money and can't pay your house rent and can't buy you no food, you damn sure got the blues


i want to love it here
the sounds of sirens in the dead of night
the way the moon reflects off car windows
the smell of the snow in the morning
the things that i think belong to me alone

but where are the memories?


with each docment i filed and each artefact i labelled, i felt my initial fascination slipping away, the chaos of material memories narrowing to a foreshortened chronology. ...  a kind of semiotic thinning was necessary in order for these objects to behave appropriately in the archive.  although my intention was to preserve the traces of cultural memory encoded in the artefacts, the shades of memory i managed to capture often seemed static and stale. 

the nomenclature [for museum cataloguing] itself admits defeat when faced with idiosyncracy: 'the system, like any generic system, ncessarily overlooks the texture of the world reflected by objects and the language we use to describe them.'
in a short essay about the piece ['the man who never threw anything away'] kabakov's character explains that his obsessive saving is about his memory, the idiosyncratic private realm where everything is equally valuable or significant, and all points of recollection are tied to one another.  he acknowledges that, for outsiders, the papers and scraps might appear to be merely garbage, but counters, 'i feel that it is precisely the garbage, that very dirt where important papers and simple scraps are mixed and unsorted, that comprises the genuine and only real fabric of my life, no matter how ridiculous and absurd this may seem from the outside.'
the significance of the objects altered as they moved through different contexts and as they came into contact with people who asked different things of them.

caitlin desilvey


in the depth of winter, i finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer

albert camus