ILYA KABAKOV THE MAN WHO NEVER THREW ANYTHING AWAY PDF

Such kommunalkas began cropping up after the Russian Revolution in , when all manner of residential buildings were converted into collective living quarters where people were jumbled together. The Garbage Man could have lived in such a quasi-surrealist community. All manner of junk and debris, whether items he has used himself or rubbish he has found, occupy almost the entire living space. The Garbage Man has painstakingly catalogued, ordered, and put these items in their allotted place, while furniture, clothes, and household articles have merely been tossed together in large heaps along the walls.

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Ilya Kabakov. The installation is a narrow, small room, more like a short, irregularly-shaped corridor with two doors, one of which is always closed. Inside, the entire room is similar to a kind of museum. Everything, even the tiniest junk, has a label attached to it, an inscription, everything is numbered and catalog….

This is both a unique museum and a residential room where the resident, compriser, and master of this garbage museum lives, but there is no normal furniture visible, no empty table, nor a chair, except for a narrow trestle-bed pushed into the corner behind the dresser under a shelf with a collection of jars.

On this same shelf stands an explanation screen which tells a little about the resident of this room and about his hobby. I sat for almost 30 years in my attic studio. I would walk past the trash and garbage boxes near the gate, through the inner courtyard that was dirty, covered with junk and dust in the summer, or with white, melting also dirty snow in the winter, and I would go up the back stairs through the back entrance.

As I made my way up to the fifth floor, I ran into two buckets of garbage with table scraps on each landing, one on each side, near the doors to two communal kitchens which opened onto the landings. Shouts, both male and female, could be heard coming from each side. Sometimes the doors would open and a woman would step out in a bathrobe to scrape the leftovers from the plate into the garbage bucket. I would slowly ascend higher and higher past this morning life up to the old stone steps, the edges of which were already ground down as if with a file.

I would run into the janitor of our building crashing down from above with an enormous metal trough full of kitchen trash. I was able to put it all together with an unexpected, sudden illumination: the trough, the janitor, and the chopped off steps.

For this trough, sliding down over the course of 70 years the building was built in had ground down the edges of the stairs. Finally, I would reach the last, attic landing. Every morning or almost every week something new would appear there.

Stunned by the beauty of a few things, I would drag them into my studio and use them — tables, chairs, an old couch. True, with the latter I also acquired an enormous number of bedbugs which gnawed on me mercilessly all night when I would spend the night in the studio. I would look around. I must continue drawing, I must paint what I began yesterday, finish the work for the publishing house which they have been expecting for a long time now. Like yesterday, and all the days before that, for some reason, I open a package with old paper and notes, and I slowly begin to rearrange these pages in senseless dissipation — this was the same kind of foolish garbage that surrounds me, but it was my personal garbage, accumulated during my stay in the attic.

All kinds of junk, all kinds of scraps would radiate a bundle of memories: what happened, how that memory was connected with the scrap, the remnant…. I would write something down and place it next to another thing in the folder so that next time I could remember what moment that note related to. Back - Biography - Honors and Awards.

Everything, even the tiniest junk, has a label attached to it, an inscription, everything is numbered and catalog… This is both a unique museum and a residential room where the resident, compriser, and master of this garbage museum lives, but there is no normal furniture visible, no empty table, nor a chair, except for a narrow trestle-bed pushed into the corner behind the dresser under a shelf with a collection of jars.

All kinds of junk, all kinds of scraps would radiate a bundle of memories: what happened, how that memory was connected with the scrap, the remnant… I would write something down and place it next to another thing in the folder so that next time I could remember what moment that note related to.

BACLARAN NOVENA PDF

The Man Who Never Threw Anything Away (The Garbage Man)

Image courtesy of the artist. Kabakov constructed the fictional character of a crazed hoarder: his room like a landfill of memories, full of all sorts of labeled objects, yet this mysterious occupant was almost never seen. In addition to printed matter and physical objects in a material sense, it also includes dematerialized forms of intelligence, information and data. It is not a problem for internet surfers to trace a fact or an identity through the internet, though the challenge is more to establish a relationship between the multiple narratives or histories and the personal experience and perception. Image as pure existence has become the one and only immediacy in real time: there is an inexhaustible online archive on one hand; and on the other, non-stop streams of webcast and performances.

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Guangdong Times Museum

Ilya Kabakov. The installation is a narrow, small room, more like a short, irregularly-shaped corridor with two doors, one of which is always closed. Inside, the entire room is similar to a kind of museum. Everything, even the tiniest junk, has a label attached to it, an inscription, everything is numbered and catalog…. This is both a unique museum and a residential room where the resident, compriser, and master of this garbage museum lives, but there is no normal furniture visible, no empty table, nor a chair, except for a narrow trestle-bed pushed into the corner behind the dresser under a shelf with a collection of jars.

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