a random place

What photographer would ever photograph these chopped logs? To find anything like it, you’d have to look for a long time through the popular photography magazines, where time lapsed sea-water, over-saturated sunsets and other visual cliches are fettered by the ‘rule of thirds.’

Like the Simpsons screen grab, the logs emanate this inscrutable poetry that comes from that re-presentation of the quotidian. Why exactly is it so? Why should these objects acquire that uneasy charge when re-placed in front of our inquiring eyes? It is a mystery to me, as I dare say it was to Duchamp when he managed to turn huge tides in western art by putting a ceramic pisser in a gallery. Maybe there is an energy located in the objects themselves, a sentience almost, that habit buffers? Another psychedelic idea. I have wondered as much in fanciful moments when a vase or clock, once stared at long enough, has seemed to wink at me.

Górki Wielkie, I think of you now. Are your troubling logs still there? Does a human inhabit the scene, some gruff man in reinforced boots? Who sits in your little houses on your forested hill, tucking into pierogi, while long light filters through your softly waving trees and silence falls all around?

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