Jon Rafman, A MAN DIGGING (2013)

A Man Digging (2013) by Jon Rafman It felt like time was really fragmented back then. They were days for recollection in tranquillity, not marked by any particular experience. Nor were they connected with any other days, but stood out entirely from time. One afternoon, I travelled back to the edge of my memory. Images of the past, layered with nostalgia, obstructed my enjoyment of present beauty. I have often tried to turn away from the slow heavy ache of the present. Instead, preferred the gleaming surfaces of memory. There was an inner chamber I could reach only by passing through these surfaces. This was the far edge of the real. It was weird that even though I craved only reality, I couldn’t stomach it. I didn’t believe in my life, so, like other people, I traded it in for stories. Their forms and symbols kept me going. I remember that when I was a kid, I could not read images as intended: I would just see a face, a stance, a gesture; always fraught with an emotion I couldn’t name. This meant