The table no time for its existentialism and absurd chair leaning against the table’s futile stance. I’m a pragmatic man so I have no use for knowing myself. The table studies its own nature by looking at its askew shade. Chair, somberly contemplating suicide because it wants to remove its painfully ingrown nails. Paradoxically they keep it alive, in form, in function. I have only one reality and the clarity of purpose. My furniture’s introspection is a trifling problem in my busy condition. The table has begun questioning things. It likes it when I leave Camus on its surface. I hear the creaky whisper, quoting: ‘the
humanwooden heart has a tiresome tendency to label as fate only what crushes it.’ Absurdly, the chair stares at the modernity of my modus operandi. I cannot be stopped to wonder. Progress is my mission. The table is a stranger to itself. The chair competes for my attention. I have appetites that the world cannot satisfy. Table is dissatisfied with its lucidity, through logic the chair has arrived at the conclusion that knowledge is a form of chaos. I’m a man of the world in spite of everything. In spite of poverty, war, injustice or my furniture’s uncertainty and their long episodes of incoherent silence.
What no one will remember
in 10,000 years or so
To work and create ‘for nothing’, to sculpture in clay, to know that one’s creation has no future, to see one’s work destroyed in a day while being aware that, fundamentally, this has no more importance than building for centuries – this is the difficult wisdom that absurd thought sanctions. The Myth of Sisyphus (Albert Camus)
Photographs taken in Statens Museum for Kunst. Copenhagen, Denmark.