Thus spoke the place:
Bring me the thrill of the moment you set eyes on me.
That which paved the path for each of your works.
Bring me yourself.
What remains from each piece that has inhaled the world.
Bring me a piece of my old visitors.
You know… the one that you also love so much.
The one that bears the faces of 19 people,
lined up side by side, looking at us.
Carved out of solid wood by Kurimbu villagers.
The story of each remains suspended like an empty suitcase, out of reach.
Bring me 19 suitcases
Each of which masks the memory of another.
Bring me all the moments in which you were lost.
Scrutinized by your gaze to track time.
Bring back to me my old chairs.
Each of which will embrace another memory.
Bring me Rumi’s poem.
The one that begins with “How good it is to migrate each day.
How beautiful it is to perch somewhere each day”
And ends with, “Yesterday’s words remain in the past,
Now is the time to say new things”.
Bring me people.
Each of whom are storytellers of their homeland.
Bring me your dreams.
Those that make me you from head to toe for as long as I live.
Bring me my own memory.
The one that I yearn to welcome.
Bring me everything.
Every one of each that is everything to some other thing.
Bring Me Yourself
2009, Cité Nationale de l’historie de L’immigration, Le Palais de la Porte Dorée, Paris
