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Wednesday, 19 July 2006
Dust.
List upon lists upon the wall, these walls still covered by scraps of paper and postcards, dog-ear slides of adhesive staining the plaster. Upstairs, no such thing. After hours of priming and scouring, sunshine streaming in through the north window, the room is prepared, white and straight.
Of course the focus must be dual now, rising to both challenges. The first is the very physical, that is to say packing into cardboard and rearranging and transporting out of doors and indoors, upstairs and down - the movement process, of changing a house once again. It is eleven in five years.
The second is much the same but with books - infinite regress, the impossibility of finishing, and the internalisation of the external act, the externalisation of the internal act.
It is all very unsettling.
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