23-3-24
Taylor Swift plays on the radio. She sings that she is always rooting for the anti-hero. Who is the anti-hero I wonder? Is it a version of herself, as she suggests in the video clip? Or does she want me to join her act of self-valorisation? Am I supposed to be the anti-hero? Persuaded by the melody and the rhythm of the beat I look at myself, toiling away in the dusty cold workshop. Swift is one of the most visible people in the world. The workshop I am in is one of the most hidden places in the world, located at the edge of a provincial Dutch city, behind closed gates and fences. She enters my world through the ether, mediated by the radio. Throughout the day we recycle hundreds of radios, many still capable of receiving and playing Swift’s voice. In fact, the radio I am listening to has been fished out of a recycling bin a couple of years ago. I am not an anti-hero. I can step out of this place at any moment, back to my artist-life.
Repetition is not just in the work but also on the radio. Many of the songs are cheap remakes of cheap remakes from the 90’s. The songs involuntarily repeat in my head. Memories repeat when I hear tunes of my childhood. The following song by Swift and Ice Spice is called ‘Karma’ but because of the many background noises I mistake karma for colour. ‘Colour is a god. Colour is the breeze in my hair on the weekend. Colour is a relaxing thought. Aren’t you envious that for you it is not? Sweet like honey, colour is a cat.’ It makes me think about the colours that surround me. The grey, yellow, pink, blue and red of the wasted equipment is covered in dirt, smeared with oil, and dulled by the sun. The magenta, cyan and yellow tones of the ink cartridges are toxic and drip through the cables and on my gloves, leaving deep yellow stains. A pink cloud puffs out of a toner when it is thrown into the toner-bin. The fluorescent yellow suit protects me from the forklifting trucks and the yellow, blue, or brown colour codes of my gloves tell me what they are used for. Colours at the recycling centre are functional. Red means danger, blue light means that a forklifting truck is close by in reverse. Black means thin gloves that can be used for nimble tasks. Fluorescent yellow means worker. Certain colours mean old. Certain colours mean toxic. Swift’s words make colours poetic. I wonder what colour a relaxing thought could be, and how the colours I wear and see around me would sound like through her voice.