Anxiety fig. 1

Anxiety fig. 1, Portraits of me in you if you were your own

Photo prints 30x40 cm x 3







Dear anxiety,


If you were your own, maybe I'd write you a letter.

You’ve been around for so many years, but what do I actually know about you?

I wonder where you might live. In a house? I don’t think you'd like houses that much.


Yours,

Irina






Dear anxiety,


If you were your own, I wonder what you would look like. How would you move through space? How would you sound?


Yours,

Irina






Dear anxiety,


It’s so grey here. We keep entertaining ourself only as an attempt to forget the meaninglessness of it all.

It would be nice to hear from you.


Yours,

Irina






Dear anxiety,


I know you're receiving my letters, I can feel it. 

I can’t get you off my mind, dear anxiety.


Yours,

Irina






Dear anxiety,


Today, I drank a bottle of wine and I lost you.

Did you go for a walk?

Can you go for walks?


Yours,

Irina






Anxiety,


I feel your presence more intensely than ever and it makes me nauseous. I’m losing the sense of control. 

If you refuse to discuss with me, then why don’t you just leave me alone?


Irina






Dear anxiety,


I’m sorry.

Never leave me.

I don’t know what I would be without you.


Yours,

Irina






Dear anxiety,


If you were your own, would your shapes be round? Like bubbles, or like a mother's chest?

How would it feel to touch you?

What would your insides consist of? Do you have an inside? Or just a hollow space filled with 

undefinable depth.


Yours,

Irina






Dear anxiety,


If you were your own, I don’t believe you would care for superficial things, like lipstick. Neither do I. 

Actually, I don’t think you’d like bright colors at all.

What’s your favourite color?

I don’t like white. It’s too harsh, too intense; too frightening, and not as forgiving as the darker ones.


Yours,

Irina






Dear anxiety,


Today I bought some threads to build you. Maybe that will help our communication.


Yours,

Irina






Dear anxiety,


If you were your own, how would you perceive the world?

Do you have sensors attached to your surface, picking up information about the space around you?


Yours,

Irina






Dear anxiety,


I can tell that you don’t like being present during the creation of your representation.

That’s ok. In fact, spending a little time apart from each other might be a good idea.


Yours,

Irina






Dear anxiety,


It is you, right? I know you don’t like to watch while I work. Or is it me who cannot hear you then? 

I guess I'm too focused on the sense of you to actually be able to feel you in the moment. 

Do you feel like I’ve been neglecting you? I’m not.

In every thread that knots together you are present. Every layer of crocheted string is a layer 

towards your completion.


Yours,

Irina






Dear anxiety,


I bought more thread for you today. You’re bigger than I thought.

Did I start something unstoppable? Will you be able to let me know when I'm done? When you feel 

complete? Or will my hands continue crocheting in vain, for years and years incapable of stopping but leading nowhere? Is there an end? Is there a point? Or just threads interwoven with an internal, organised 

chaos? 


Yours,

Irina 






Dear anxiety, 


Thank you for your input the other day. Of course you’re not grey.


Yours,

Irina







Dear anxiety,


You need to let me work. Or at least let me go to the supermarket. I can’t decide whether I want tomatoes or Beetroot when you’re interfering in my daily activities this way. 

I’m doing this for our relationship, remember?

I feel like I can’t do anything right.


I had Beetroot salad for dinner. You were fine with that, weren’t you?

Do you also like the intensity of its pigment and how it bleeds when you cut it?

If you were your own, maybe we could eat Beetroot salad together some time.


Yours,

Irina






Dear anxiety,


You're heavier than I thought.

Crocheting is becoming more physical and I cannot spend so many hours in a row as I used to.

This might be pleasing for you to hear since that means you’ll have more time with me.


Yours,

Irina 







Dear anxiety,


I can start to see your shapes and you have stamina. Your bubbles aren’t that fragile.

You’ve got some dirt on you because you didn’t let me clean the floor of my studio. But I can tell that you don’t mind. Neither do I.


Yours,

Irina







Dear anxiety,


Your beauty confuses me.

I couldn’t help but lift you in my arms, lay you on top of me and feel your weight on my body.

This time, your mass didn’t feel suffocating like something or someone pressing on my chest, making me unable to breathe properly. It felt calming. Comforting. Nice, even.

This confuses me.


Yours,

Irina






Dear anxiety,


I am mesmerised by your appearance.

I’m starting to become intrigued by your inside. The inside of your shell. Your skin.

I don’t think you have an inside of flesh or solid material.

I start to wonder how it would feel to be inside you. Would we be one? Would you contain me, like the womb of a mother protecting a fetus? Or would I be consumed by you? Nourishing you?

Maybe we would exist in symbiosis.


Yours

Irina