It may seem I know everything about a book: I penetrated every corner of it, rushed into every nook, revealed all its secrets, it can't surprise me . . . . . . . Yes, it may seem so. Having imagined, written, designed, drawn, set almost twenty books and having printed and bound more than three hundred copies of them it might seem so. I could have said I know thoroughly the anatomy and physiology of a book. I was even inside a book, I entered it. Not only when I built a book many times bigger than myself (when I enlarged Treatise on Pageography so that one could enter easily between its pages where I had written excerpts about a blank page, word, sentence, paragraph, block of text, leaf, cover, book, library..... while books fixed to the pages were like illustrations, initials or even paragraphs and could be easily taken of and skimmed through) . . . . . . also when I entered a pharaoh's tomb, which is in fact a tomb-book, in the King's Valley or was wandering through the hypostyle hall in Karnak where every column is like giant fossilized papyrus scroll . . . . . . So, I had a chance to see the world from inside a book, stuck my head out of a book and look at it . . . . . . . .

Yes, it may seem so and sometimes it even seems so, but it is not so. I don't know everything about a book. I could plunge myself in a paper pulp like a petal or a piece of leaf, I could dive in an ink and write something with myself, I could weave myself among canvas threads . . . . . . maybe then I would really know the nature and structure of paper, ink and canvas. Nevertheless these are things relatively simple, although they might be considered shocking and bizarre. These are things as obvious (even if the obviousness was apparent to a certain extent) as obvious is physicality of a book as an object. However a book is not a set of things, material things. After all a book is the set of notions and ideas which can appear as materialized in various way. Of course for a liberat (liberer / man-of-books). Because for a writer (man-of-letters) (and for overwhelming majority of normal people writing and reading, speaking and listening) only in one way – as a word: uttered, thought, written..... But right now this difference of opinions does not matter. What does matter is a consensus of opinions that a book is a set of notions. That a notion is a brick the edifice of book is built of. Like a sound is a brick the edifice of music is built of. I will not know everything about a book until I learn the nature of notion. To learn it I must see a notion from all possible sides. Also from inside. I must get into a notion. It is so: we speak, read, write . . . . . . . (draw, paint, look . . . . . ), put notions together, combine them – sometimes we think and wonder how we combine them, we examine often these combinations, compositions, but almost never we think about what we combine, what we put together, about these tiny element of big puzzle . . . . . . . The same happens when we play music or listen to it: we almost never think about sounds – it's interesting and worth considering why here, in our culture, in our civilisation (at least) the questions like “what is a sound? / what is a non-sound?” are usually asked at the very end (if ever!) although they should be asked at the very beginning of musical training.
Questions about the most fundamental things are the most troublesome. Some of very serious and wise people are said to maintain that considering the nature of walking, wondering what a step is while walking, is a symtpom of madness. Maybe they are right – the knowledge of absolutely fundamental matters must be mad. But if you want to KNOW you must ask about things and matters so fundamental and obvious that asking such questions is considered just sheer madness . . . . . . . . . Ask anybody what he or she is doing when he or she is writing. What is writing? What does writing consist of? Nobody will know. Nobody will REALLY know. Because although everybody here has been taught to write, nobody was teaching us what we were really doing while writing, what we used to write down . . . . . . . most probably not what we were talking and with no doubt not what we were thinking . . . . .



I'm in a restaurant. I read in the menu: blin. Blin? Yes, blin. Just a blin. Of course, I've heard about a blin. However I have never tasted it. Have I ever eaten a blin? No, probably not. Surely not. With no doubt I have eaten no blin in my entire life. So, I don't know what a blin is. So, I know only the word blin. So, I know only the notion blin. Or maybe even a part of this notion. Because I read blin and nothing is happening. I hear with my internal ear several phonemes assembled in a sound cluster causing no image in my mind. Only some vague association. A noodle? Something like a big dumpling? A patty? A kind of pancake? Something stuffed with something? ....... I will order it. I will get it, I will taste it and I will know. Am I sure I will ALREADY know? And if I go to the kitchen and saw how a blin was being made? Maybe then I will know more. Maybe I will go home and make it by myself and then I will know even more. And if I made a huge, enormously huge blin and go inside it and saw it from inside? But then I would be inside a real blin, not in a notion blin . . . . . . . . Why blin? Why not flin or bombol? What a boring old question! Boring not because repeated ceaselessly, but because still having no answer. No satisfying answer . . . . . . . Such a huge blin? Could be difficult. Could be impossible. Where would I cook it? Must a blin be cooked or fried or roast or stewed? Or maybe pickled? No, one doesn't pickle a blin. Something prompts me pickling has nothing to do with a blin. What does prompt? . . . . . . . . . Blin. Blin. Blin . . . . . . . Dublin. Dęblin. Norblin . . . . . . Do they make a blin in Dublin? And in Dęblin? More probably in Dęblin than in Dublin, but who knows, who knows . . . . . . . . Or maybe they make a blin in Norblin? No, nothing has been made in Norblin for years. But years ago they could make huge iron blins. Or silver! Noble blins! Noble blin! No blin! NO BLIN! . . . . . . . ! ! ! ! ! ! ! . . . . . . It's an old factory transformed into a museum . . . . . . . Imagine you are in a hall called now A 1000 TONS HALL. Imagine a 1000 ton blin. A 1000 ton iron blin! . . . . . . Fantastic associations. Mad etymology. Troublemaking sound relations . . . . . . . But this is also a part of the notion blin . . . . . . . . What is a notion? It is something spongy, very soft, sticky, muddy, hands dipped in it like in a lump of dough, fingers smeared, can't feel anything . . . . . . . face smeared, eyes smeared . . . . . . . blind blin . . . . . . . . ears smeared and stuffed . . . . . . . mouth full, you can't breath . . . . . . . . . go out! go out! at once – get out – wash – clean - . . . . . . . . And I will go out, I will clean myself and being so clean what will I know about greasy, soft, clay-like Plasticine-like blin?



Why Norblin?

Because it is. I know where it is and I know how I can get into it. And I don't know where I can find a blin – nor I know how I could get into it. Besides, wARTo art fair take place just here, in Norblin, not in a blin or Dublin or Dęblin and wARTo is a kind of midwife of this project. It is also important, that Norblin contains libro it means “a book” while there are no books in Dublin, Dęblin or Lublin. If a book is hidden in Norblin, there is nothing else to be done but find it. Looking for it will mean writing it. And if it is inside Norblin, it should be written inside Norblin. Or on Norblin. Literally – not metaphorically. On the walls, floor, pillars. Certainly not directly on them and not with spray or oil colours since it is a monument ...... I think of hanging on the walls transparent films and writing on them. Then the text will not cover images. Then the image will take part in telling the story having the same rights as the text ...... although I will see the wall through the text, but the text will all the time keep a certain distance to the image – the distance real and physical that can be measured in centimetres or inches – it's important, it's very important ....... I can write also on wide stripes of paper which will hang down from the wooden roof-truss thus forming additional walls and barriers, additional labyrinth, a structure that will either veil or unveil, make passages, tunnels, will guide the reading – well, should a reader be guided? should I suggest certain directions? or maybe I should let a reader move freely, grope and err, look for the exit ....... I will put different elements found on the walls: a lever-hieroglyph, a device-pictogram, half erased letters, signs, letters-fetters.... in such a text. I will be writing with colour chalks on the iron floor – what I will write will vanish slowly erased by the visitors' shoes, by the readers' shoes, by the reading shoes – well, it's interesting: this work will have to disappear and it will disappear, nothing will remain, maybe a few words somewhere in a distant corner . . . . . . . . And so on. Then such literalness will be the metaphor of entering the notion, of getting into the notion. So, I will also find myself in the metaphor . . . . . . . . And then I will have to leave this labyrinth. However, first I will have to get into it. And write everything in one go. Leave the space only when everything is written, it means when I get off the notion in which I have rushed . . . . . . . . The unity of writer's drama and main character's drama. The unity of time, place and action of describing and being described. The unity of the one who is writing and the one who is being described. So there will be neither the one who is writing nor the one who is being described. Who will be then? . . . . . . . . There will be no description, no describing, since writing itself will be action, drama, adventure – and the place of action, of this drama-adventure-event will be in fact my mind – the mind of the writing-and-described-one . . . . . . . then the plan of this old factory will be the plan of my mind . . . . . . a 3D model . . . . . a mock-up . . . . . . .
Well, well, it's getting intriguing.
And it should be warm.
What would it look like? I enter Norblin for example on June 1st and I leave it for example on June 10th. Norblin is transformed into Libro 2N. And then? Then Libro 2N must be transformed into Norblin. What will remain after cleaning? Almost nothing. That's good. Maybe a documentation: film, pictures, sketches. A trace in memory.
2N.
Neither – nor.
2 x nothing.
Nowakowski x Nowakowski.



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