I cry

I cry.
I cry is the title of a text I just started to write. It quite naturally follows I sweat, a text that accompanied pictures of puréed lentils, something between shit and concrete in the shapes of Morris Louis Veils alongside pictures of white sugar icing in quite similar shapes. I cry will accompany the party sequel of this series. Pictures of puréed peas and light pink sugar icing.
I wanted to contribute something to this show, a poster, maybe. I thought to make a collage of texts which were part of my exhibition Men what a humble word. But somehow the texts seemed old already. Too much happened since I wrote them. I feel different. The world is. And the texts also seemed to work less well when separated from the pictures. They might be too funny and/or try to be cool. They stem from a helplessness I associate with certain men and my helplessness with their helplessness. Macho got loud again lately.
I cry as a simple phrase seemed to hold more. Even if and also when it soon will accompany party sequel pictures. Because despite dancing, this is what I often did, I used to cry a lot at parties. When I was a teenager this could take hours, mostly spent on kitchen floors. It was the 80ies. The end of the world. And in my very adolescent ways I cried about the world. And I remember that afterwards I always carried my puffy mascara smeared face with pride and some weird kind of determination, rarely put to use. It is other things I would be/am ashamed of. Not a puffy face. Not crying or running mascara. I'd like to think that I sensed then that directions were taken which would eventually lead to the place we're in today. Some tragic inner logic of things put in place back then. My youth. Your mouth. There's always something sticking between teeth. But probably it was only what teenagers do, being not very cool, rather lost on kitchen floors. At least back then in a grey Vienna filled with lonely old women very close to an iron curtain, and no cocaine at toilets. Crying of course leaves you on the floor, not necessarily in a kitchen. It is a release. You felt. At best it is an aware and humble place to start from. A recess. Sometimes I feel dead and/or exhausted like fruitless, tropical bird shit to chew around on. Sadness and anger live in suspended relation. They do get mixed up. Anyways, I still try to put into words how things feel, are. Mouths. Teeth. I've only started. So here, for now, I can only contribute this. I cry.
- Lisa Holzer