I do not remember much of that April day, 1985. It was a Thursday. I wasn’t even three years old when the day stopped and attention turned elsewhere. The only thing I have not forgotten were the faces of the people; they were all similar. On that day, someone had joy and could not celebrate, but had to cry instead. There were also some of those who could not cry, but bit their cheeks from inside instead to refrain from laughing with the distorted faces. Maybe someone else that day lost a close relative and could not cry on his behalf, because the dictator had died.
But, I don’t want you to tell me about the history; I want you to tell me about your “little” story. How was it interrupted? As humble as it may be, it provides truthfulness.
On March 27, I have the pleasure to meet and share with you some of these stories. The following days the gallery will turn into a recording studio, ready to record your story. The walls are lined with recycled propaganda material. The material is re-proposed as a raw material by enabling each of you to write or draw on their memory. Technically, this installation also serves as good acoustics, which helps for a cleaner recording of your voice.