a particular state of being


a particular state of being is a fragment of a wider research 'when a child is born into being'.   
‘When a child is born into being’ is a visual journey through created memories and collective recollections of the childhood years. My main goal throughout the process was to recognize the first emergence (into the world). To put it another way, the experience/first sensation when a child is born into being.

What has primarily piqued my interest in following this trip is the study of one of the most fundamental human conditions - birth. The work's intent expanded from this position forward to narrate life's movements. Beginning in our mothers' wombs until the final chapter in the last inhabited home.

What is it to be born? What is it to dwell? Do I have a choice?

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Particular State of Being, installation (part of Jedidja Smalbil RESIDENCE BOX), Noorderlicht photo festival, 2021, Groningen, NL.  Photos taken by Jedidja Smalbil

excerpt from an action of burial ceremony

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Sponsored by project Lucht launched by Kunstpunt

for more information -->https://www.kunstpuntgroningen.nl/en/project-lucht/klaudija-ylaite/

deconstructed poems; or a possibility for choice in narrating a story

the work was realized with the help and support of COLLECTIVE

more information --> 
https://noordenaars.nl/artistinspace/portfolio/collective/

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experiencing your past

I remember experiencing your past. 

Through the stories, you have told me.

I remember being there.

With you, when a doctor cut off your umbilical cord.

I recall the moment of your childhood, 

When we played with neighbor kids. 

Your first time peeing in bed.

I remember laughing but the next day it happened to me as well.

We both carried our wooden swords when walking through the fields.

I can still see you stepping into a cowshit.

The summers in the countryside.

During awkward family gatherings, they kept on asking whom we will become when we grow old.

I remember you wanting to be a doctor and me a dancer.

Then later I urged to be a doctor and you wanted to be a musician.

I bought a guitar for you.

The next summer you already played a ballad about stars.

I danced in the fields.

I remember you getting your first pimple and me seeing my body change.

I started wearing a bra and you started smoking.

Do you remember my parents starting to fight and me running away for the first time?

I recall our conversations about adults being always busy.

Later you got your first job.

We celebrated in the fields.

Our families were proud of you.

I started painting during the times you would work.

I remember us hiding our cigarettes and running to smoke over the corners.

I remember you looking concerned.

You became more silent.

That summer you forgot to take your guitar.

Fields seemed more still.

Our gaze changed.

The next morning you chopped the head of a chicken.

I remember the first time I was scared of silence.

Something was changing.

We would not swim naked anymore.

Would not sleep in one bed.

Wouldn’t share the same spoon.

Slowly we were fading apart.

I remember you starting to drink.

Later being admitted to the hospital.

I did not dare to visit you.

I was afraid of the silence and screaming walls.

I fell into the world of fantasy and soon after laid down in the same ward.

We did not recognize each other.

You seemed older, though we were born at the same time.

We carried the same name but you made a new one.

I felt heartbroken and left.

Before flying, I went to the fields.

I could still hear our laughter and your guitar notes.

I did cry that day.

Since then I have not seen you again.

Next summer when the family gathered, everyone forgot you.

I recall visiting your grave and my grandfather collapsing asking why.

We found you hanging in the barn, it was too late to bring you back.

Soon after I met you again.

You played piano this time.

I remember crying on your shoulder, asking why were you silent.

You spoke a different language.

Couldn’t even write in Latin.

I was confused.

We went back home when our great granny died.

I remember them not recognizing you.

I remember asking them if you were my friend.

We kept our secret.

Then I became delusional.

Shouted at you to become the same.

Tried to remind you of the days in the fields.

You were not the same.

When you died, your memories died within.

I felt like living with a new person I knew nothing about.

Yet did not have the courage to meet you.

Short after you picked up heavy drugs.

Then you became delusional.

Broke all my plates and cups given by our parents.

I got admitted to an art school when they said you have died again.

I said goodbye and left for good this time.

Dyed my hair blue, later purple, and then pink.

Nobody knew you here.

I felt free.

I kept on remembering you hanging in the barn.

I kept on remembering your heart-stopping.

Our family divorced.

Mother got to leave our house.

Remember how much she loved that place.

You would always help her clean paint stains I would leave on the floor.

Then I became silent.

Became a stranger in a country I knew nothing about.

For some time I became you when you stopped talking.

I could not understand adults forgetting their childhood.

Every summer I would come back to the countryside we both loved endlessly.

I started to swim naked in the river again.

I would see you in every wind blow, every tiny bumblebee.

You hated those, said they're too fat to fly.

Funny enough our granny was called one of them

She did have weight but would run anyways.

Do you remember her morning pancakes with some flies inside?

I remember your first food poison, you blamed grannies pancakes.

I learned to cook Spanish food.

You would have loved it.

I recall meeting you again in the city I still felt strange.

You showed me around, we went to the park.

Slowly we became friends in a city we knew nothing about.

Our studies started, you were acquainted with hard work, I felt forced.

I found new friends while you would prepare for another day's lectures.

We knew we knew each other.

I remember bringing you back to the fields.

We hugged our beloved cows, you knew their names.

I recall you remembering your past.

I recall you remembering being born together.

We went to visit great granny's grave when I saw your face change.

You did not know her.

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