more is more an invitation by Antonia Lia Orsi
more is more
an invitation by Antonia Lia Orsi
picture these gentle folks:
gradually going everywhere. “and now the ride’s been a long one: hence it must be
autumn. at least in a place where mothers know about us.“
where everybody’s close: them, descending france and burgundy and hessia, the
valleys of carinthia, the bohemian castles. who can relate most to these narratives?
parts and more parts of forgotten existences rusting at the shore, amidst lobsters
and clams, gently covered in crystalline layers by the salty waves.
“like bourgeoise chairs“, she thinks to herself. he peeks over the other shoulder.
the background stays a calmingly unadventurous green.
focus dinner table. look at them; slowly withering in their velvety skin. forfeited
flowers blossom in the forest outside (stems like boning knives). clouds constrict.
these gentle folks turning the empty (carved out like it’d have been the last meal for a long time)
porcelain upside down—
he sits closest to her.
wine stain on his rose polo,
chin stubble, shaved neck,
crumpling his empty pack of parisiennes, tossing it on the speckled floor—
i’m watching them introduce various incoherencies to each other. elevated, talking
down to him, she couldn’t take him seriously. the mood shifted not too long ago. he
scratches his stubbles with his left, holds a last unlit cigarette with his right hand.
he’s not too interested anymore.
„like bourgeoise chairs“, she smirks. but he won’t understand.
focus again, taking time slowly,
und ich würd berge kaufen wenn jemand einsteigen will but i just got my money, k?
Text by Bruno Mokross
All images Philipp Friedrich
Sami Nagasaki, Aleksandar Vucenovic, Bruno Mokross, Antonia Lia Orsi
more is more
an invitation by Antonia Lia Orsi with