The Lost Park, Maria Barnas 2011

Film, muziek en poezie.

In het voorjaar van 2009 verbleef Maria Barnas op uitnodiging van MIM voor een werkperiode in Recife (Brazilie). In 2011 presenteerde ze de tentoonstelling THE LOST PARK in MAMAM (Museu de Arte Moderna Aloisio Magelhaes, Recife Brasil) Bij de opening werd een vinyl-single gepresenteerd met de originele soundtrack van de film van Peter Lunow en verschillende remixen van Nathalie Bruys.

KANT A: Music by Peter Lunow
01 The Lost Park 07:13 Composer: Peter Lunow, Piano: Peter Lunow, Guitar: Esther Steenbergen Percussion, Philip ten Bosch
02 The Lost Park - The Soundtrack 04:46 (remix by Daniel van Hauten) Voice: Nanne Timmer

KANT B: Music by Nathalie Bruys


When I finally got there, dusk was setting in.
Have you noticed, how people start walking faster
as darkness falls. Does darkness fall?
Light falls. Evenings fall.
We fall in love. Into patterns and pieces.
I remember a concrete bench.
It is very white.
I am a hopeless photographer.
When I want to capture a bird on film it spreads its wings
before I - my flash ruins the light I am trying to -
Look. Even the grass is out of focus.
What was I looking for?
Or is the bench grey?
It stands out against dark gravel on the ground.
I picked up a stone from the park
when I had made the decision to leave the city.
The park was already different to when I first went there.
Trees grew haphazardly, appearing in astonishing places.
Branches wild as my longing to be somewhere else.
I pick up a stone every time I make the decision
to leave.
I must have put hundreds of them in my pockets.
They puzzle me.
Even though I picked up each single one
from the gravel by the bench
the white one that is also grey
the one that is shaped like a snake
or a lake's sandy edge, slithering
they seem to come from different places.
Different times.
I don't mean that the stones come from mountains
that are unspeakably old. They are, of course. I know.
I mean that they seem
like sculptures made by time itsself
every stone a witness to the changing landscape
not unlike thoughts, I suppose
jostling to become memories.
I can take these in my hand
weigh them. Lazily throw them on a heap.
But they refuse to loose importance.
Mango's ripen as I get up
Trees are felled
as I stretch my legs
Grass moulds as I comb my hair
and hear the earth whisper
as I forget
what I was looking for.

Maria Barnas