ONE PERSON'S TRASH IS ANOTHER PERSON'S TEARSURE
Photographs series, digital print, 80 x 60 cm each
by Shahram Entekhabi 2007
.
One person's trash is another person's
treasure.The deconstruction of a man.
May I introduce you to a bunch of my best friends. Let's make a party.With
the power of the glitzy Unicorn.
Dominatrix Elastica
Being born between all the 1s and the 0s, and
being declined as the 'error in the system' by her own parents, Dominatrix
Elastica made her way through this binary hell with her erotic charm.
A passionate woman fighting for her desires of love and power in an unreal
world.
Living in Mercury City, she discovers love in digital chips, shaking around
like tiny current wizards. She dreams in digital and by the evening before
going to bed, she prays to the Saint Major Gigabyte, an ordinary invention
by the Mercury Cyber Prophets, to keep robots and human beings in peaceful
harmony. Both species shall live together on one planet with one electronic
Saint.
Sexual reproduction and every other kind of ridiculous human behavior
has been deleted from mother earth ages ago. Now it's the time for innovative
mass fabrication of human desires and body liquids with the help of major
river's fatherly steel tits. But how to feel like a real woman now?
'Has the world become insane or am I just slow?', she asks herself. Dominatrix
Elastica is in one of those silly moods where you are just a bit sad about
the world as it is. She takes her fluffy stainless mercury dog close to
her body. Now she wishes, they could have erased sadness, too. Her hardware
aches and the soundwave radio plays her favourite song: 'I wanna know
what love is'.
Cassandra Bellalorquen
Now, I am pleased to take you to a special place:
Down in the mysterious and magic woods of Lindcrester Lorquen, hidden
under blue dreamy bushes and protected by an army of squirrels, stands
a tiny cozy hood. In this hood lives a glittery 12-year old fairy named
Cassandra Bellalorquen.
Cassandra is the fairy of the candy and the sweet wishes. She is friends
with kitten, unicorns and puppies.
But due to her glitzy fairyness, it is given that this young lady has
the mission to save the world. There are a lot of things she has to care
about, the air pollution, the protection of the whales and Tibet. But
the unholiest of all her enemies are the murders of all good and bright
and the mothers of the dead souls.
Those unfaithful monsters are called the 'Terrakwatts Inquisitoris'. They
are a thousand years old, have long grey faces, lifeless eyes and live
in a forest nearby Lindcrester Lorquen. They absorb happy people's beautiful
dreams to grow animosity and pain. Then they turn the bad energy into
selfishness and rage, digitalize it and spread it via electronic equipment
like televisions, toasters and microwaves in people's houses. In fact,
this could be a reasonable explanation for all the frustrated house wives,
right?
Fortunately those mean creatures do have a weak point: They are allergic
to magic fairy kisses. And this is Cassandra's favourite discipline.
A good old Muck in the Fotel.
Trisha
Oooh, it is Monday morning, almost 11 a.m.
and Trisha wakes up, still half drunk, in a stinky motel room outside
the city border. She coughs. A raw chronical cough that comes out every
day by the same time. Aching and loud.
Actually there should be her money on the small table in the corner. But
there is not. That son of a bitch went without paying. Again.
There were better days, with hundreds of men seeking to be short-term
visitors in her love zone. But as we can't knock out time and gravity,
Trisha has to feed her empty stomach with uncertitude. And she knows:
the grand clock for a woman like her is ticking in high speed.
The thick, standing air in the brownish motel room smells like a mixture
of whisky breath and cold cigarette fume. She can't sit. And her back
hurts. He was a very drunken man. Seeming lonesome. He told her he hadn't
touched a woman in years. Now she should know why. But this is professional
risk.
She dresses, leaves this smelly shit of a motel room and gets back to
the town.
Trisha takes a good morning whiskey to welcome the new day with a sacred
ritual. Then a coffee with sugar and the half lenght of a small cigar.
Her dry skin itches. She grates it with her chipped finger nails and pays
the amount for this nutritive breakfast with her last remaining pennys
and walks back to her small appartement in the south of the town. Who'd
ever care if she'd disappear?
Women like her live as free as the pigeons in the big towns. There are
a lot of occassions when passers-by, mostly the drunk ones, ask her, why
she sells her body, to which she replies: 'Who the hell cares about it?
Just give me 50 ...'
In her funny hours, she sometimes might enjoy a generous liquour from
a good brand, gets up the roof and sings the happy whore songs from the
streets with her Bonnie Tyler voice. She doesn't care too much about the
normal women. Not even her mum hasn't really been one. And what defines
a normal woman's attitude? Being a housewife, a silent birthing machine,
the angel and the whore in one, not too smart, but prettier than the rest?
Her father has been a weak drinker and a small mind. Her mother Robin
Hood. Going out at night and coming back the next morning. Feeding her
husband's lust for booze and the daughter's hunger. A secret hero.
What's the name of the game?
Young Lady Petula
There is a glance of hope in young lady Petula's
eyes. Her desperate view scans the sweat scented ballroom. She is a lone
dancer, a lone drinker, and a lone lover. Seeking for a strong man to
make her become a real woman.
You know, Petula hasn't always been such a good looking woman. She was
born in a different shape. A shape she learned to hate more and more.
Till one morning in the bath room. Oliver must have been around 14 years
old, looking into the mirror, deciding not to be what he sees. Taking
a razor blade with his fine hand, cutting off the piece of flesh that
destroys all of his fantasies of another identity. His mother found him,
crying and bleeding. His face was as pale as the chlorinated bath room
floor.
Back to the ballroom:
Petula's eyes are switching through the variety of young men. She tries
to scent their odor. She swallows every movement of their defined body.
Wanting for a dance with him or him or him. Anybody. Just somebody.
She takes a drink, some bitter sweet port wine. Joins the dancing crowd.
She smokes a slim lady cigarette and blows the fume into the faces of
the young men around her. Her single dance becomes faster and the long
thin legs are trembling ecstatically. She might have accidently hit someone
with her shaky dancing feet. The young men seem disturbed by her presence.
She spills her glass of port wine.
The liquid lands on someone's head. Who cares? She continues dancing like
a crazy ballerina on ecstasy. crashing into the people.
Pearl drops of sweat are dripping from her face. She lightens another
cigarette, inhales and leaves the place. The young men are glad she abandoned.
Performer
Shahram Entekhabi
Costumes & Make up
Martina Schöne-Radunski
Photography
David Bornscheuer
One person's trash is another person's treasure
© Shahram Entekhabi
2 007