I, Anatomy by Celer
For George and Nina Benson
I, Anatomy
My friend, 103 years old, sat across the room from me, a small gas heater nearby, with photos of family and Martin Luther King, Jr., and we talked for a few hours in the late morning. I had brought him a plant a few years before, and planted it in the front yard, but it had died the winter before.
A carnival in Costa Mesa, California. Kids screaming on the rollercoasters, the sound of balloons popping, machinery spinning, with smells of beer and popcorn all over the ground.
In an airplane flying over Papeete, the safety and welcome announcement CD skipped at such a point that the voices became a looped choir, as the plane coasted in circles around the edges of beaches, and the stewardess ran in the tipping plane in heels to fix the CD.
We made a box of tape loops in the Malibu Motel, from strings and pianos, and an old reel to reel tape of Sinatra. From the top of the cliffs, the view was completely clear, and even in a completely black and starless night, nothing stirred.
A few stories, put together with no previous purpose, than having their own place and time. In being put together, something new is formed. This was the basis for I, Anatomy. There wasn't any intention, it was just a diary. These things happened, and became the source material, finding their directions from what was before directionless, and become the whole. Going back to these moments and memories, I, Anatomy isn't a story, it's one hundred stories.
Artwork by Christoph Heemann.
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