We Write to Fight Memory

Writing to someone closes the physical space between two people. Words fill that space. The written word has always carried more weight than the spoken word because "writing fights memory - we write so that we don't forget".

The person who said this was named Frédéric Bruly Buabré. I bought this postcard of a painting by him when I was on a student exchange program in Switzerland last summer. I managed to drag a few friends to a museum called "Collection de l'Art Brut" in Lausanne, which houses artwork (paintings and sculptures of all kinds, made of all sorts of material, using all sorts of techniques) created by people with mental disorders - people who went insane (debatable what that means) or were retained in mental asylums. Since my visit, I have read up a lot about outsider art (art that lies outside the boundaries of normal culture) but I don't claim to fully understand even one thousandth of what it really comprises.

All I know is that this image, made by Frédéric Bruly Buabré - an Ivorian artist from the West Coast of Africa - is a memoir of a period of curiosity and introspection in my own insignificant little life. All his drawings are part of a larger spectrum called World Knowledge. It is said that he received a vision in 1948, that influenced all his work.

"On March 11, 1948, “the heavens opened up before my eyes and seven colorful suns described a circle of beauty around their Mother-Sun, I became Cheik Nadro: ‘He who does not forget."

La montée de l'humanité au ciel: un nuage

blanc figurant un < < enfant >> >, 2006

mine de plomb, stylo a bille et crayon

de couleur sur carton

16,2 x 10,7 cm

Photo: Amélie Blanc

Collection de l'Art Brut, Lausanne

Translation from French:

The rise of humanity to heaven: a white cloud contained a < < enfant >> >, 2006
graphite, ballpoint pen and pencil
color on cardboard
16.2 x 10.7 cm
Photo: Amelia Blanc

Collection de l'Art Brut, Lausanne

How little I understand about what goes on in his mind, and how much I wish I could. They were running an interview of this charming, happy African man in a corner of the museum on a television set, and I memorized his words and scribbled them down before I could forget. In explanation of one of his paintings, he said (in his own language):

When the earth and sun make love, they create rain. All sorts of things (life) spring forth from the earth - children, trees, animals.

After some looking around, I stumbled upon this website: http://www.caacart.com/html/frederic-bruly-bouabre.html. If anything about this blog post interests you, then go ahead and explore some more. I give you my word, you won't be disappointed.

Floorboards

I can smell the wood,

Hear the floorboard creaking.

It's not loud but it breaks the silence.

Careful toes can't hide your weight

Finger-on-the-lips won't mask your gait

Woolly socks might choose your fate

That's why cats have it easy.

Padded paws,

And no sense of guilt.

White Sunday

Strangely cheery

Yet dully and dreary

Almost eerie;

A morning for thinking

And hot-tea drinking,

A morning for letting go softly,

Thunder sirens lightning

Headlights streetlights shoplights

Flash and howl.

Looking up at white, white skies,

Gray at the horizon,

Borders blending in my eyes.

A dark cozy house,

I cuddle up like a mouse

Behind a large window,

Safe and meek and quiet,

With a book,

I look on.

Japanese Professor

I'm watching my Japanese professor teach. He has put so much effort into this class. He knows exactly what to say and when to change slides.

He is holding a make-up lesson at 7pm on a Saturday, yet at least 50% of his students have turned up. The clicker that he uses to point at the slides and change them is faulty today; he pushes it twice, while talking about the impact of hurricanes on wages, but the slide doesn't change. He pushes harder, stalling with words, and it still doesn't work. Then finally, it does - before conking again. He half-laughs and shakes his head in clear unbridled frustration.

This happens so many times that he finally, just short of cursing, mutters to the class - I am not blaming you, I am just really ..

It works, and he swiftly changes the function of the device from clicker to laser.

Before conking again.

His frustration is mounting. He goes a little red and grits his teeth a little. He sighs and glances at the digital clock on the wall. Does anyone have any questions? he stalls. Comments? You two, seem to be chatting a bit, anything you want to add? Anyone else?

His hair starts standing straighter as he pushes the button harder and harder. Slowly his face goes red, then redder, until he is a tomato headed Japanese man comically posed, pressing a button faster and faster until it's a blur, and finally he bursts with a pop.

A squeak from the spot where he popped - Ok, take a break for seventeen and a half minutes!