Kasia Krenz
with photographs by
Wojtek Korsak
Disegnodiverso. Torino 1999
translation:
Z. Pelczynska-Ananiew
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Kasia Krenz with photographs by Wojtek Korsak Disegnodiverso. Torino 1999 translation:
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Dear Wojtek,
The package from you arrived today. One hundred towers spilled
from the envelope onto the table. Or rather, One Tower with One Hundred
Faces. Slender and taut as a musical cord. Grey. Golden.
Silver like a wave on the Seine. As light as a pigeon feather.
As massive and heavy as...
Yours. Sometimes also mine.
In the shapes of the tower we read the history of our rise to the top,
the story of how we learned to lift our feet off the surface of the Earth.
And all of this because the Sky sang of freedom. From this comes
our longing: higher, higher... This is why some constructed
wings, others built - a tower. We all wanted to touch the clouds.
To imitate a bird's flight? What boldness! We, the future inhabitants
of the tower, we were more sensible, and of course we loved to be rooted.
OUR TOWER - a tree trunk, a brick pole, a steel cord - allows us to wander
towards the top, at the same time giving shelter. Thanks to her we
may touch the horizon without losing our place on Earth. We are suspended
in the clouds, yet without wings... The closeness of the walls
around one''s body builds the vertical dynamics of explosion, an explosion
of upright dynamics. Upward movement. In a sinusoid of ups
and downs, to reach the peak of the tower - and sometimes to jump from
it? - that is the sense of freedom. Here is the tower: our
Fortress.
This Tower of One Hundred Faces - like no other in Europe - it is our
Vector and Measure, another standard meter, next to that piece of metal
from Sevres. I suddenly think: each of us lives in his or her
own private tower - of ivory, of silence, of longing for fulfilment - and
yet, and despite this how many of us run to reach the peak of the Tower
together...
Best wishes,
Kasia
I need a measure
of vertical and horizontal
of the golden partition of the world
which all around me
which within me
I search for a magnetic needle
a point of reference
for the pain sleep longing
that I breathe
each day each night
I yearn for a nest suspended
between heaven and earth
between gravitation and a bird’s flight
from which one could clearly see
everything and nothing - all the way to the horizon
Aphrodite dances
in the garden of autumn roses
amidst kingfisher daisies’ violet shadows
shrouded in a white spider web
she dances whirls dances
The Bride of September mists
who pins to the waist of her golden dress
eclipses of the sun and the moon’s train
whirls, whirls and watches as the day goes by
she glides lightly amidst the rain’s streams
she tastes the salt of waiting, Indian summer’s
veil falls to her bare feet
the young Betrothed has not come
in a quiet garden at dusk
Aphrodite of autumn roses dances
Listy
do Julii. (Letters to Juliette). Novel
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