Phase 1
Courtesy of the artist
Time is there to be killed.
Here, I have a ballpoint pen whose nib is about to get dry. I scratch on white paper again and again. That way, I pass time. In the beginning, the nib nodded with a trace of force but without ink. Nods and nods, then gradually, it sheds purplish black ink. I slide my hand, and the zigzag of black ink follows me. I escape, but it comes out asa mass. More and more. I turn. But the ink keeps coming. I turn again. But it still chases me.
Now, the mass is growing. The zigzags in the mass look like they are fidgeting. I try to concentrate. I cover my ear with my left hand and I hold the ballpoint pen with my right hand. I am busy scratching and sliding my hand, still trying to escape from this mass.
The mass of black ink is getting bigger and bigger, and now, it occupies the white paper. Looking closely, I see the black ink breathing restlessly. Sometimes it seems pale; sometimes it seems thick. Looking from a distance, the surface reflects light on one side and holds shadow on the other side.
Time is leaving me.
Now I stop the ballpoint pen from running and release my hand from the paper. I stare at the paper. There is the solid tower, which is solemn and patronizing. Somehow, the surface of black ink continues to tremble. Something might be inside.
I decide to take time to see what is inside. I hold the ballpoint pen again.
Phase 2
Another roll of tape is thrown in the box and the lid is closed. The box is full and crammed with stuff in disorder.
There is a toothpaste tube at the very bottom of the box, squashed by the weight of other stuff on top of him. He cannot bear to be left in such a situation. Irritated, he says, ‘I can squeeze myself and out will flow stripy toothpaste.’
All the things inside are frustrated by the situation in which they find themselves, unable to make full use of their own functions.
Angrily, a balloon says, ‘I can blow up.’
Bravely, a wooden pole says, ‘I can tilt.’
Nervously, a rope says, ‘I can stretch out, if someone helps me to uncoil.’
A multicolored liquid says with excitement, ‘I can splash out like a fountain. Or I can also become steam and leak out that way.’
The tape, newly thrown in the box, thinks over what he can do. Thinking back, his life has been a repetition of putting two separate things together. He was always serving the happiness of someone else. He knew he existed in various colors and sizes, but in many cases he was used only to put things togetherand never thought of his potential abilities.
He thinks again and says, ‘Well, maybe, since I am round in shape, I can simply roll forwards and backwards on the ground, as if I was dancing. Also, I can get unrolled and taped somewhere, and in this way I can mark a line.’
‘That’s good enough,’ say the other things, convinced by his enthusiasm.
‘If only there was a way to get out of this square box.’
Phase 3
I stand in front of the tower. It is so tall that I can scarcely see the top of it. I cover my mouth with a protective mask and wear a helmet. I take the ballpoint pen in my right hand, and put a few extras in my back pocket.
The wall is made only with scratchy black ink. Black ink that finally took solid form through the repetition of a zigzag movement, supported by the white paper. For the ink, it was a long awaited transformation.
First, I crawl on the ground. I draw a square shape at the bottom of tower and black it out. Now, it becomes an opening the size of my head. I look inside, but I only feel the cold and wet air coming out. Nothing seems to happen.
I place a stepladder beside the wall and climb up it. Standing at the top, I draw a small window on the wall: a window without a cover or a shutter, a window like the sole light source in a prison. I put my head through and try to see what’s inside. It is dark and quiet like an eternal black hole.
I erect scaffolding to get higher up, close to the top. I climb up carefully. Even though I go higher and higher, I cannot see the rooftop, only the continuation of the scratchy black ink surface. I sit on the scaffolding and draw a circle on the wall. I push the ballpoint pen with force so that the zigzag trace disappears. The paper gets dented and the black ink wells into the indentation. A moment later, it becomes a round hole. I look into it. Inside it is still very dark and I can hear the echo of my breathing.
As I come down the scaffolding, I stroke the wall. It is solid and still. It is also cold. As I touch it, I feel the surface of the wall like a wooden relief, marked with the traces of force and time. I stroke the surface with my hand, and see the palm of my hand wet and stained with black ink.
Suddenly, I feel something hitting the top of my head and, as I look up, I see green liquid leaking through the scaffolding. I jump off the ladder and look up again. Now, from the round hole that I just made, green liquid is splashing out. At the same moment, as I look at the ground, a creamy substance is emerging out of the square opening. An accumulation of creamy things that smell like mint.
All sorts of activities are busily taking place through the openings of the tower. I step back to see the whole view. I see a balloon that puffs out and withers, like the throat of a frog taking a fast breath. A wooden pole breaks through the wall and pokes out, like a billiard cue. Steam is pouring forth with threatening power and thick liquid is spouting from the roof, as in a catastrophe, while on the ground, the tape is rolling innocently to and fro. It goes in one direction and disappears, then it comes back and hits my toe. The red ball is bouncing happily. It almost fits in the round holeof the wall. Free and easy.
I take action. I place the stepladder beside the tower. I hold the ballpoint pen and draw an additional circle on the wall. Then I jump off the stepladder to escape from another gush of liquid pouring over me. I hear a howling sound from deep inside of the tower, as if something is being born inside. I step back and cover my head, it seems as if it is coming closer. The next moment, a white thing comes out and bounces a few times in the air. It is not liquid but a white rope, that springs out and then hangs down towards the ground.
I take the ballpoint pen again. I catch the zigzag on the edge of the tower and draw a long line on the ground. I keep on drawing the line without removing the nib from the paper. The long line of black ink runs between the nib and the edge of the tower like a stream. The ballpoint pen is dragging the tower by means of a long and thin straight line.
The black ink, which was solid and still as the solemn wall, starts to melt. Being liquid, it flows along the zigzag trace, and eventually pours into the dent of the straight line on the paper. It is smooth and light like transparent water in the darkness. From a distance, it looks like the thin black thread is unraveling from an intricate piece of embroidery.
The tower is dismantled by the nib of the ballpoint pen.
All that is left is a straight black line on the white paper.
Only on the palm of my right hand a slight ink stain remains.
Published in Making is Thinking, a publication accompanying the exhibition Making is Thinking (23 January–1 May 2011), curated by Zoë Gray, assisted by Amira Gad, at Witte de With, Center for Contemporary Art.
Download the complete digital publication here.