Empty shops and developments are the same as a closing down sale. Not only has a dream ended publicly but an envisioned activity or purpose failed to materialise.
Even when the next big place opens, its inevitable that the world, people and traffic will move on eventually. Surrounding shops disappear or change till there is nothing there and its an empty arcade in a side street.
Documentation of a site acknowledges its existence, but like a person its not dependant on a photo to exist.
French conceptual artist Sophie Calle documents her life as if to prove she exists in the world. Her personality can be negotiated and changed at will and her possessions are of no consequence.
She experiments on herself as though she is an empty shell and an open book. Her projects though personal are firmly in the public gaze.
She once followed a man for two weeks in a blond wig, publishing every detail of his actions in a left-wing newspaper.
Briefly worked as a hotel maid, solely to search and photograph guests belongings.
Persuaded her mother to hire a private investigator to follow her, so she could see his photos and report of his impressions of her as a subject.
The world is full of people who want to make their mark on the world. It doesn't seem to matter whether it is for a structure, photograph, store or piece of writing.
Do we really need the world spotlight to justify our existence, when we are all stars of our own soap opera, however small.
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2 comments:
I really enjoyed your post. And I think you're right about people want to leave their mark on the world - I think that is why so many have children, to ensure thier legacy.
great post, thought provoking indeed. karla seems to be onto it with her thoughts on children. Your post reminded me of a favourite poem you might enjoy:
Ozymandias of Egypt
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said:-Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter’d visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp’d on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock’d them and the hand that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that collossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
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