You can read this article as a PDF/flipbook in issue 87 of Korpo Bladet here
When I was a child, my parents would point at ‘old roads’ in the Swiss Alps. These mysterious sideroads suddenly left the main road, and while our car was crossing a modern viaduct, they still leant against the mountain, following its curves. The roads of the past were decayed, without railings, and frequently collapsing due to landslides. They were forbidden.
Sometimes, the ‘old roads’ had tunnels, but these were bricked up. I found it sad. My mother said it was not sad, for in her childhood, the journey to the top was twice as long, and it was not uncommon that the car engine would overheat. When I asked why the ‘old roads’ had been abandoned, I always got the same answer: New roads were built with modern bridges in order to make the way to the top shorter, and to bypass obstacles.
But I kept asking why. Children keep asking why, as they keep enjoying the fairy-tales they have heard dozens of times, not so much because they enjoy repetition, but rather because they secretly hope for add-ons. I got many add-ons about ‘old roads.’ They could be very factual. In the 1960s-1970s, I learnt, Switzerland had gone through some kind of concrete frenzy. Dams, bridges and roads were built everywhere. One add-on was tragic, almost Shakespearean: A famous viaduct in my region had been built by a notorious civil engineer, whose parents were my grandparents’ neighbours. This man had a brother, also a civil engineer, but the brother had never been as successful. He was living in the shadow of his famous brother. My parents found the story sad. I found it boring.
Abandoned places are fascinating, for the same, plain story can be told in so many different ways. Behind the abandonment itself, there is the shadow of a question haunting the plot of any film, any novel, any play: What did lead to this? Answers are endless, but the material remains the same: it is the ruin.
There is a little ritual at AARK. Artists who have been staying longer show the way to the lake to the newcomers. It implies crossing Korpo’s former garbage dump, an amazing wasteland. On my arrival, poet Janika introduced me to it. In the forest, she pointed at visual elements. She recommended that I memorise them. It is peculiar how a place quickly becomes familiar. Some weeks later, I showed the way to the lake to a newcomer, and I mentioned the same objects: the red bike leaning against a trunk, the screw standing on a rock, the white car, the creepy hut, the rusty barrel. Every mark is related to a past human activity, a past garbage activity.
Many artists at AARK must have experienced the same eery feeling when they discovered the wasteland. It is like a Swiss ‘old road,’ a place which triggers a gasp of childish amazement. Visual artist Wendy has sketched a wonderful map of her forest walks on Korpo Island. She has drawn the little red bike, adding a new tale to the same material: the ruin.
// Hello Elodie. How long were you at AARK and what meant for you?
I was planning to stay one month, but I stayed two. I left in June. I have witnessed the change of nature. It had snowed a week before I arrived, nature was still on winter mode, and the paths barely spottable in the woods with leafless bushes. When I left Korpo, there were flowers everywhere, berries started to grow, and snakes were less shy. AARK was the ideal setting to focus on editorial work for my novel, which will be published in December. I am immensely grateful to Renja and Benkku for creating such a peaceful environment and welcoming me so kindly at AARK.
// With what other artists you shared your time at AARK, and what do you take from those connections?
In May with Kamari Brown, Janika Haataja, Oksana Mykhanko. In June with Wendy Yuan Lin, Gill AKASAKA, Gary DeMichele, Oksana Mykhanko.
AARK fosters many artistic and non-artistic discussions. As a writer, it is always interesting to hear about the literary scene in other countries. Also, there are so many overlaps between arts, so it is nice to discover how other disciplines address similar topics, such as storytelling. I have realised how unpractical it is to travel for visual artists, who often have to carry heavy material. Being a writer has advantages in terms of practicality.
