The poetry of exaggeration

Of abandoned places, factories, bunkers, pioneer camps, rust cemeteries we have enough in post-industrial, post-Cold War, post-Socialist Europe. Usually it is even no great art to penetrate there. But to return with such photos which render the nightmare of the place, the absurdity of the objects trapped, like superannuated Danaides, in the infinite loops of their already meaningless function, which at the same time also reveals the absurd side of that function, “the face of the monsters”, as Ajvaz writes, which, until things go smoothly, “is concealed from us by the protective arm of the careful and perfidious god of grammar” – this is the real Art. This is cultivated on a high level and with a craftsman’s confidence by saoirse in his one year old blog, where he makes a trip every week or two weeks in an object around Moscow. He never names the sites, вопросами о местонахождении просьба не беспокоить, you are kindly asked not to bother with questions regarding their whereabouts, but this is probably part of the concept, the liquidation of the old relationships between these Rabelaisian and Boschian objects, to revitalize them by taking them in the hand one after the other, calling them individually by name, macro photographing them with relentless sharpness, to see if this endless catalog, roll-call, Rabelaisian and Boschian list recited with a stubborn articulateness, in whose hearing we are held now by chill, now by incredulous laughter, could somehow rescue them from the hell of their aimless galaxies, or at least from oblivion.

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