Three

(In Italiano: http://valeriapierini.it)

Soundtrack: ‘Almost’, playlist on Spotify.

Derry stories

When I arrived in Derry, the first thing I came across was the story of Dopey Dick. I read it in a pub: a killer whale was swimming along the Foyle.

Sometimes, when I am tired I sit by the river, hoping to get a glimpse of it.

I did some research and I found old articles about a scientific research from some years ago: according to these articles Dopey Dick is alive and well. He is part of an orcas’ pod somewhere up north and, until he was identified, his name was ‘Comet’. I couldn’t help but thinking of the Bethlehem’s Comet.

 

Cafè

One morning I went to a café, I sat outside, in the sloping road, where the Bogside begins.

I rolled a perfect cigarette but I did not have a lighter. Right in front of me there was a barber shop, a girl combed a boy outside the shop, on the other side of the street there was a pub from which you could hear ’90s music – maybe a normal day in Derry. I asked the barber for a lighter and he gave me a matchbox. It was funny, music and matchbox taking me back to the days when I was young, in a totally different place. There was a man in the pub with a bright pink mug, I hoped that he was drinking whisky.

 

 

Books and vintage

At last I made it to the bookshop near my studio.

Because of the tiny size of my travel luggage I didn’t buy the entire poetry section: old editions about D. Thomas, W. B. Yeats and all the rest… A man in the shop asked me where I came from. When I said ‘Italia’ he went: ‘I saw Pirandello’s play, I love his black humor, it’s like Beckett…and Joyce, you know Joyce?! He lived in Trieste!’ ‘Yes, I know Joyce and I visited Triste, years ago.’ While talking to me, he handed me a lot of books, I passed the offer of ‘Ireland’s Fairies’ by Yeats ‘I know this book, thanks’, but he continued: ‘Heaney! You know Heaney!’ and put his latest handsigned book in my hands. Hoping he wouldn’t notice, I put the books on the counter (the counter was so covered by books, that you couldn’t see it). The man returned three times and repeated the same story: Pirandello, the black humor, Beckett and Joyce, I tried to fold up the maps that I had found.

Oh, library stories, I suppose.

I am collecting stuff for my next project, so I went to several vintage shops and I found a lot of old photos and postcards. One of these postcards is a Millais’s draw: ‘Pears soap’. I saw the original painting, last month in Perugia, I couldn’t but buy it.

 

 

Film

Visiting Brooke Park is like entering a muffled world with peaceful avenues and the smell of grass.

Hearing the wind ruffling the trees made me think of David Hemmings, maybe I’ll see heaps of mimes on a jeep or I’ll find a crime scene. The city feels so far away: like in Blow Up, you turn the corner and you find yourself immersed in silence.

 

Almost

My research is now over. In the next few days I’ll set up the exhibition. I collected stories and anecdotes about the city walls from the local community and paired them with forensic images. A succession of hand written stories materialized in the most unexpected ways: under the door, hand delivered or appearing almost by magic on my desk…
I am touched by how we can piece together (or even imagine) the history of a city through the recollections of its inhabitans. Someone wrote their story on music paper found outside their front door, someone else wrote a story in collaboration with their family, others added drawings to the text. As an artist it’s usually really exciting working with the wider community, in this case I am totally fascinated by the way the participants embraced the process of hand writing that I had hesitantely suggested.