Trafika Europe 11 - Swiss Delights

Ilma Rakusa

These images from who knows where are joined by sounds and smells. Pentatonic (with piercing semitones), sung, piped. The smell of smoke. Of spices, of incense. Tea steams in the cups. The country in the other memory is a territory of tea. Between its fences and its borders, it touches me. I follow its calls as if they were cries of trustworthy shepherds. Eastward ho! Time is cone-shaped; life advances towards an inexorable point. I call it the beginning. Because the herd is already waiting. Because the smoke drifts where it will. I ask for no reasons. I don’t accept the word nostalgia.

112