Letter to the Avant Garde

Dear Avant-Garde,

Are you fiction or fact? I do not know you, but I can imagine.

I imagine you are something superior, almost surreal, ephemeral, transitory, in my everyday life. That you are set in the past or the future waiting to be discovered. And that when you are found you become part of my world. When I am with you I feel like I am in a film, or a book, or a piece of music. And I wish I could follow with you from start to end.

Maybe you are the same for different people. That being avant-garde you have the job of creating a story that intertwines us all into a seamless plot. And you do this by looking in-depth at who, what, where, how we are as humans.

You are avant-garde because you have the gift of transforming yourself from nothing into something, like a machine reproducing itself, like nature itself. You become ‘integrated into history’ as avant-garde. But you never disappear. You create your character, which is for our time.

When I am not with you, avant-garde, where am I? I want more of you, but I know that if I search for you I won’t find you. Maybe I should go back to the point where I lost you. To research into your comings and goings. To create a record of the time and places you talk to me, to find out what, who, you really are. But then I fear I probably would never get close to you. So I let life pass by until I recognise your presence, and when I do find you I let it last until there is nothing left.




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