Edge-ness

To us as outsiders the landscape around MOKS is still non-defined. Each road out of Mooste means nothing. They’re just routes to somewhere else non-defined. A blank, a location, a zone, a space but never place-like. We have a sense of being on the edge. We are on the edge of our own life and not yet in the centre of another’s.

On Tuesday we met a group of visiting art lecturers from around Europe. One of them said in passing that Estonia was science-fiction: a wilderness of disused submarine bases, derelict collectivised farms, one million people living in a country bigger than the Netherlands but with 1/16th of the population, survivors perhaps, of what who knows? The ghosts of the Cold War squat the Western imagination. Initially I thought it a little unfair to the one million who now live in a resolutely contemporary and capitalist present, but walking around Mooste, these ghosts still speak to us. Perhaps only the Western European sees them, as they come from spy films, old propaganda and the once primordial fear of nuclear winters. Now this is all science fiction. A paralell past that never really occurred.  These visions have nothing to do with Mooste itself, or modern Estonia.  They´re all hocus pocus.

I think the edge of Mooste is affecting us. Our pair-ness is accentuated and interrupted by it. Today I sung some songs and Trish slept. We then filmed ourselves running into glass. Trying to find the edges.

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2 comments
  1. All around us are signs of active heritage, but these signs are negated by closed doors and a sense of desertion. It´s hard to get to grips with Mooste as a place or to work out what it is. I´m sure there are things happening under the surface but none of these feel accessible yet in the present. I feel as if I´m trapped in a space which exists separately from village as its respresented. A space that isn´t quite real. A mirror image?

  2. “The Garden of Forking Paths is an infinite series of times, a growing dizzying web of divergent, convergent, and parallel times. That fabric of times that approach one another, fork, are snipped off, or are simply unknown for centuries, contains all possibilities. In most of those times, we do not exist; in some, you exist but I o not; in other, I do and you do not; in others still we both do.” (Jorge Borges, Collected Fictions, p127)

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