Pablo Helguera Archive

Full text of performance work, first presented at the Weatherspoon’s museum
exhibition The Lining of Forgetting, February 9, 2008

Orizaba (2008)

I

1. a gate
2. a window
3. a porch
4. a foyer
5. an office
6. a dining room
7. a hallway
8. a living room
9. a bedroom
10. a playroom
11. a garden
12. a driveway

II.

1.
A gate.
A red gate
A red gate with a no parking sign

2.
A window ornament
face of sandstone,
Colonial, somber
Looking down.

3.
A porch
An arched porch
A wide staircase with a round banister

4.
A foyer
With a burgundy velvet curtain
Swords on the walls,
Lonely

5.
An office
Public, elegant, business-like
Mirrors and piano on the background

6.
A dining room
Grandfather clock, brass pendulum
furniture polish smell
brocaded white tablecloth

7.
A dark hallway
vitrine with wine glasses
a Chinese goddess figure
smiles at the center

8.
Main living room
just before lunchtime.
paintings of saints and high windows
sunlight.

9.
A Children’s bedroom
maybe pink
a small stuffed lion sleeps.

10.
A playroom
candy light green furniture
rows of young and broken dolls
archive and hospital

11.
A garden.
Between the house and the street
A garden with a slide and a swing.

12.
A driveway
Vigilant graygreen ivy
Black Cadillac comes and goes
raindrops on the windows.

III.

1.
A gate.
A red gate
A red gate with a no parking sign
thin,
a red gate semi-open
border between past and present
made not to conceal too much
vaguely colonial ironwork,
its rust covered with paint and a few scratches
made by passing schoolchildren
who ring the bell and run,
when no one is looking.
but no one ever looks, really,
nobody comes to attend the call.

2.
A face of sandstone, under a window,
looking down,
shadows drawing
many flowers of stone
under a window
maybe before the summer rain.
shadows of sandstone
looking under a window
drawing down flowers
on a face of rain.

3.
A porch
an arched porch
with a round banister
thirty five years ago
a wide staircase with a round banister
at a time between day and night
aunts with coats visit,
plants and windows at six forty five p.m.,
allowing the view inside but barely,
maybe the TV is still on,
a black cat bites on the arched porch
hiding behind locked rooms
of perfume and cigarette.

4.
A foyer
with a burgundy velvet curtain
seemingly seldom visited
with medieval objects
family coats of arms
with Spanish flavor
and a standing armor,
like an embalmed butler
in a museum-like corner
theatrical,
roughly medieval
seemingly empty.

5.
An office
a marble desk with golden pens
where important letters must be signed
mirrors and piano on the background
perhaps a collection of old books about the crusades,
and a portrait of someone’s grandfather.
business conversations sit on the chairs
and there are too many ashtrays
and an outmoded fireplace
but no fire or ashes,
all is so untarnished
that this could be just a memory.

6.
A dining room
an old Philco record player
the table too large, set for breakfast.
too large for a conversation
a grandfather clock clicks
the echo of a brass pendulum
and furniture polish smell
brocades white tablecloth

7.
A dark hallway
vitrine with wine glasses
a Chinese goddess figure
sits there, smiling, at the center
with a hollow porcelain body
and a removable hand
into which paper wishes can be dropped
to ask for love or to pass an exam
or so the family legend goes
the shaky glasses ring onto each other upon passing.

8.
Main living room
just before lunchtime.
music, Borodin perhaps
and a chair where to have a drink
ornate paintings of Peter and Paul,
wooden crosses hang.
perhaps slightly severe,
luminous high windows
with white sunlight shining
a shadow moves
maybe a piece of laundry.

9.
A children’s bedroom
a likable small room
in a black and white memory
in which the carpet and the walls
must have been pink
like the one of 1940s department stores.
a tiny lion curls onto the bed.
it is always morning here,
and the window is open with light sun
and fresh bedsheets

10.
A playroom
with candy light green furniture
and rows of young and old dolls,
a lost and found toy wardrobe
hospital for broken small people
archive of a distant country
where everyone’s childhoods
and imaginary friends go.

11.
A garden.
between the house and the street
a garden with a slide and a swing.
many years later,
when we have moved out
we sneak in
and it all now seems so small
and we know that no one understands.

12.
A driveway
to come back and forth,
ideally, with a black Cadillac,
but these are difficult times,
and we may have to go by foot and be late,
the graygreen ivy is vigilant
and remembers Saturdays
the salty smells from the kitchen
raindrops on the windows
a children’s party perhaps when Bozo came
and maybe someone can see
raindrops on the windows.

IV.

1.
A red colonial ironwork
with nobody there,
rust covered schoolchildren
vaguely thin, and semi-open
when no one looks between past and present
made by passing red paint
no parking sign
scratches nobody
running rust vaguely concealing
But, really,
no one ever looks
a red gate semi-open too much
made not to attend the call
or conceal colonial paint
covered with ironwork,
its covered and a few thin scratches
vaguely ring the bell and run.

2.

maybe before the summer shadows
drawing a face
flowers of sandstone
looking down
under the rain
a window under a window
looking many flowers
a face of stone makes shadow gestures
looking at rain
down,
Maybe before summer
flowers
of rain.

3.
A round banister locked porch
allowing only thirty aunts to visit
with large coats
cigarettes and perfume
a black cat bites a wide staircase
with a view of six forty five p.m.
barely
an arched perfumed porch
with only a round day and night
at a time between coats
plants and windows visit
the TV, on for thirty years,
hides on the arched porch
behind time.

4.
A velvet medieval visit
burgundy foyer
With an armored curtain
Theatrical museum of period rooms
Seemingly empty
seldom visited
like a fake Spanish flavor
family call to arms
and, maybe an empty theater
for museum visits
with armored objects.

5.
In the background, a collection of grandfathers
old crusades next to new ones
dark mirrors and elegant windows
office portraits
and books like mirrors.
a marble pen
to sign important conversations
too many golden ashes
untarnished,
there are
perhaps under the piano
outmoded marble conversations
desks with golden untarnished business
too many important letters look new
and there, where pens see ashes sit
a portrait
signed, an ashtray looks like a fireplace
and an office
but no fire or
things.

6.
a table too large for conversations
polished record player
a grandfather clock set for breakfast
brass furniture polish smells
brocaded with conversations
breakfast echoes
the pendulum player

7.
A dark Chinese goddess
with a hollow
hallway
with porcelain wine
vitrine glasses
a figure
dropped wishes
sit there, smiling, at the center.
and a removable family legend
hands
into which
wishes of love are dropped
by paper tigers
or so it goes
the shaky ring onto each other upon passing.

8.
With white sunlight shining
a living room shadow moves
maybe a piece of laundry.
Just before the music brings us
luminous white drinks
there are maybes:
the wooden shadows
of Borodin, Peter and Paul.
and a chair
slightly severe
where to have a cross
Just before luminous lunchtime.
Music sunlight perhaps
drinks
paintings of high windows
Peter and Paul move
wooden laundry, crosses hang.
maybe a piece of
A shadow with white shining
Moves up high.

9.
It is always morning here,
and the window is open with light sun
and fresh bedsheets
a likable lion,
such as the one of fresh tiny suns
department stores were
walls are always open
and memories curl into pink carpets
and black and white mornings.

A children’s memory bedroom
in which mornings curl into the walls
here,
the carpet must have been once a tiny lion
while the pink window
is open with 1940s sunlight
like the one of
department store bedsheets.
and a likable fresh small room
best when nobody enters.

10.
Goes without saying,
light green candy with
lost and found dolls
denotes an archive of old infants
a green playroom for broken small people
everyone’s toys
with candy rows, furniture
and a wardrobe of a distant country
everyone’s childhoods play here,
where nothing is old rules
where nothing is known
but imaginary friends.

11.
We know that a garden
and a slide and a swing
and many years
after we return
no one understands
and know that
between the house and the street
moved out
a garden would seem now
so small
and it all sneaks in
with slides and swings
into the so many years
when we return.

12.
Off they go
slowly, one by one, ideally,
the salty smells
with a black Cadillac
we may try to remember Saturdays
from what used to be the kitchen
the graygreen comings and goings
late by vigilant foot
raindrops on a children’s party
these are difficult times, Bozo,
there is the ivy of our windows
perhaps when Saturdays were places
off they went with our friends
and relatives and salty kitchens
Slowly, one by one
someone can see
a driveway
Perhaps and maybe
we may still keep raindrops

V.

1.
A red colonial ironwork
Maybe before summer
Flowers with nobody there,
drawing a face of rain.
rust covered looking down
made by passing red
nobody looks at
A face of stone
Covered with
summer shadows
flowers of sandstone
looking down at
schoolchildren
who ring the bell and run
between past and present
and semi-open
no parking sign
concealing
a window
But, really,
Made not to attend the call
no one would ever look
at too many flowers
shadows scratch the painted rain
down,
running rust
and a few red thin scratches,
nobody.

2.
A round banister locked
burgundy foyeur
With an armored porch
Allowing seldom visited
thirty aunts
With large noisy coats
Cigarettes and a kind of fake Spanish perfume
a black medieval cat bites me
in a wide period room
staircase
with a view of six forty five p.m.
barely
an arched curtain call to arms empty theater
perfumed porch
with only a round day and night
at a time between family coats
but barely locked recalling museum visits.
plants and windows visit at six forty five p.m.,
the Velvet TV with armored objects
on for thirty years
hides.

3.
In the background, a collection of conversations
a table with elegant windows
too large grandfathers
old crusade clocks next to new ones
dark piano mirrors
office breakfast portraits
and books like echoes
brass polished mirrors for conversations
a marble pen
to sign many important golden ashes
untarnished, outmoded pendulums
there are
perhaps next to the brocaded marble piano
outmoded smells
conversations
desks with untarnished business
where pens see ashes sit
and there on the chairs
a portrait
signed echoes, an ashtray looks like a fireplace
and a record player
but no fire or
real things.

4.
A dark Chinese goddess
maybe a piece of laundry.
with a hollow
slightly severe
hallway
Borodin certainly
with porcelain wine
just before luminous lunchtime
vitrine glasses
Peter and Paul move
a figure
music sunlight, perhaps.
dropped wishes
sit there, smiling, at the center.
There are maybes:
The wooden shadows
a hand drinks
into paper bodies
Just before the music speaks
wishes of love are dropped
or so it goes
Maybe a piece of a shadow
wooden laundry, crosses hang
with white shining
The shaky luminous ring onto each other upon passing.

5.
Goes without saying,
It is always morning here,
and the archive of of young and old,
a likable lion,
is open with everyone’s toys,
candy rows, furniture,
and fresh playroom bedsheets
department stores
where nothing is known
where nothing is old
fresh tiny suns enter the
walls which open with imaginary friends
in which always light green tiny candy lions
And everyone’s memories curl into pink carpets
with black and white children
a likable fresh small bedroom
Is best when nobody enters.

6.

We know that a garden
the salty smells
come back
with a black Cadillac
and a slide and a swing
and difficult times
and many years later
perhaps when Saturdays are the places
to remember
from the kitchen
when we return after, by foot,
The graygreen has moved out
off to friends
but
raindrops on a children’s party
fall slowly, one by one.
no one understands
where relatives and salty kitchens
go
and we may have to sneak
into the garden
and know that the ivy of our windows
is not ours
a garden seems now so small
when we have years
many small sneakings
someone can see
slides and swings
of so many years
when we
perhaps and maybe
let Saturdays get away
like raindrops.

VI.

1.
A red colonial banister
seldom visited ironwork
Maybe before burgundy summer
With armored Flowers
Allowing nobody there,
drawing a face of thirty old aunts
Cigarettes and rain.
rust covered staircase looking down
with a view of six forty five p.m.
made by passing nobodies,
looking at the perfumed porch
a black medieval stone cat bites
in a wide period room covered with summer shadows
flowers of sandstone
looking down at TV on for years
raucous schoolchildren
ring the bell and run
between past and present
plants and windows visit
concealing an empty theater
a window
But, really,
Made not to attend the call
no one would ever look
at many museum flowers
hiding shadows scratch the painted porch
raining down,
running rust
and a few red thin scratches
nobody
likes a fake Spanish perfume

2.
In the hollow background,
a slightly severe, dark Chinese goddess
with a collection of hallway conversations
sits there, smiling, at the center.
a table and elegant porcelain windows
just before luminous lunchtime wine
a too large grandfather wishes
Old crusade chairs,
Peter and Paul move old clocks next to new ones
Borodin plays the piano
music sunlight drops, perhaps.
Office Vitrines
Breakfast laundry portraits
and books with removable family legends
the echo of a hand polishes
brass mirrors for conversations
maybe a piece of a shadow holds a marble pen
just before white shinings
and all wishes of love are dropped
to sign many family ashes
untarnished, outmoded pendulums
there are paintings
next to the brocaded love conversations
and outmoded smells
with golden untarnished business
where wooden high windows see ashes sit
and there, on the chairs,
and a record player
the shaky luminous ring is heard
but there is no fire or
actual things
to be touched upon passing.

3.
We all know
it is always morning here,
in a garden
when we have to sneak
into the archive of of young and old,
when we have years
a young lion
sneaks out of our driveway
into the garden.
Between the street and the house
raindrops on a children’s party
slowly, one by one.
slide and a swing
with everyone’s toys,
candy rows, furniture,
goes without saying,
when we return after, by foot,
no one understands
fresh playroom bedsheets
which now look so small,
especially when driveways are the places
to remember
and we know that the ivy of our windows
and the Saturdays from the kitchen
are not ours
many small sneakings
between the house and the street
where nothing is known
about so many years
perhaps and maybe
someone can see
raindrops from the kitchen
Like the one of fresh tiny suns
walls open with imaginary friends
and light green tiny candy lions
curled into pink carpets
with always black and white children
And a fresh small pink window
Best when nobody enters
Until when we are left out
And a garden seems now so small
and slides and swings
when we
let Saturdays get away
like raindrops.

VII.

We all know
In the hollow background,
A red colonial banister
seldom visited ironwork
a slightly severe, dark Chinese goddess
here, where its always morning,
maybe before burgundy summer
with a collection of hallway conversations
in a garden
with armored flowers
sitting there, smiling, at the center.
We may have to sneak
where nobody is allowed,
a table and elegant windows
into the archive of young and old,
with porcelain wine
when we have years in our back
just before luminous lunchtime
drawing a face of thirty year old aunts
and our grandfather’s wishes
an old likable lion,
Crusade chairs,
Sneak into our driveway
cigarettes and rain.
Peter and Paul move old clocks next to new ones
into the garden
Borodin plays the piano
in the rust covered staircase looking down
between the street and the house
music sunlight drops, perhaps,
with a view of six forty five p.m.
raindrops on a children’s party
made by passing red arched curtains
with a fancy piece of laundry
slowly, one by one.
nobody looks at breakfast portraits
on the perfumed porch
a black medieval stone cat bites
a slide and a swing
and books with removable family legends
with a wide period room covered with summer shadows
the echo of a hand polishes
everyone’s toys,
flowers of sandstone
brass mirrors for conversations
candy rows, furniture,
looking down at a TV still turn on for years
maybe a piece of a shadow holds a marble pen
when we return after, by foot,
just before white shining schoolchildren
ring the bell and run
and wishes of love are dropped
between past and present
semi-open
plants and windows visit at six forty five p.m.,
there are paintings
perhaps next to the brocaded love conversations
outmoded smells
to sign many important golden ashes
untarnished, outmoded pendulums
goes without saying,
no one understands
fresh playroom bedsheets
which now look so small,
with golden untarnished business
especially when driveways are the places
to remember
no parking velvet signs
where wooden high windows see ashes sit
and we know that the ivy
and the Saturdays from the kitchen
are not ours
and there, on the chairs,
concealing an empty theater
a window
many small sneakings
Between the house and the street
where nothing is known
about all these thirty years
when this house has been closed, uninhabited
frozen
But, really,
Made not to attend the call
Where nothing is old
And perhaps and maybe
someone can see
raindrops from the kitchen
no one ever looks at a record player
in memory bedrooms
Like the one of fresh tiny suns
and many museum flowers
raining down,
running rust
hiding shadows and a few red thin scratches
walls open with imaginary friends
caressing the painted porch windows
and a light green tiny candy lion
curled into the pink carpet
nobody likes a fake Spanish perfume
Curling into the walls and the window
And a likable fresh small room
Best when nobody enters
Until the day when we are left out
And the shaky luminous ring seems
with always black and white children
thirty years later
we sneak into the garden
and seems now so small
and we know that someone who could not enter
into this past
once poured
sadness tears like children’s party raindrops
and slides and swings
such as those when we
let Saturdays get away
and see only scratches and
no fire or things left
onto each other
upon passing.