Beneath the nightly colored sky there is a dim light, a light that comes out of the wild bushes. In such otherworldly times – you call it traumhaft – something unexpected, something appears out of the blue. The sense of a non-place is subtly enacted. The art work is hidden somewhere unknown, a place not meant to be found. Metaphorically referring to the dialectics of marginalization and the lack of historical resource, the art work is buried with only a few traces left behind. What disappears becomes apparent. Yet, there is something to follow… Finding collected newspaper clippings inside of a found book is like holding hands with someone you just met. The reader is reminded of the kindness of strangers. There is something verborgen, something hidden in history, something left unsaid. But, we all know that sexuality is older than the history of sexuality. We are not dasselbe, we are das Gleiche. We are seeking a word to define an ambiguous state of emotion we share through old books, late night messages, and unphotographable moments. In the library, between massive encyclopedias, you find a picture from a family album, someone looks like you, a photography of a forgotten memory. This picture reminds  me of Behazin, the stories written by him, the books that were translated by him, and the gardens in which he walked through. I like to go out for a walk in the park, in the shadows of the garden he mentioned. I like to look for the red roses which lost their scent. The night before he leaves town for another country, I had this uncomfortable feeling, an uncanny taste on my lips. I am annoyed about feeling well. Today, there is only light and shadow outlining representations through motion in space. Perhaps, this is how a memory becomes an object in the trace of memorabilia. I unwillingly give up. Even though what is yet not acknowledged in practice still permeates (dasein) and can be revisited until its demise.
Didem Yazıcı, Berlin 2014
