Left Luggage

New Blurb Book Edition of Left Luggage Now Available

johnperivolaris — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 19:02:13 +0000

Left Luggage by John Perivolaris | BOOK INFO

Photograph of Maria Teresa Dorigo (1949) (Verso), Inscribed by Her with the Handwriting and Uncertain Memory of Old Age

johnperivolaris — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 14:32:08 +0000

By inheriting the photographs of our parents, time plays its trick on us through a mortal reversal of roles. With the passing of years, we witness the transformation of our parents into our children and of us into their parents.

Photograph of Maria Teresa Dorigo, Trafalgar Square, 1949

johnperivolaris — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 14:04:56 +0000

Dear Lucy,

This photograph confirms that there is no such thing as coincidence. A mise en abyme if ever I saw one since, in the photograph I made of you, you are standing in front of the very wall that appears in the background of your mother’s picture.

All best,

John

La sua gente

johnperivolaris — Sat, 20 Mar 2010 11:19:55 +0000

A bitter-sweet commemoration of her mother’s life, Lucieta remembers choosing the suitcase in which, a few years ago, she returned her mother’s ashes to Venice and `la sua gente’.

Venetian Trousseau

johnperivolaris — Sat, 20 Mar 2010 10:07:43 +0000

The trousseau Lucieta’s mother brought with her to England.

Behind the National Gallery, 18 March 2010

johnperivolaris — Sat, 20 Mar 2010 08:35:49 +0000

Video Interview with Lucieta Williams, Trafalgar Square, 18 March 2010 on Vimeo by John Perivolaris

johnperivolaris — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 20:47:58 +0000

Click on image above to watch

Lucieta Williams, Trafalgar Square, London, 18 March 2010

johnperivolaris — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 19:37:22 +0000

A New Blurb Book Edition Has Just Been Published

johnperivolaris — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 12:07:18 +0000

Left Luggage by John Perivolaris

A Chance Return? 26 October, 2009

johnperivolaris — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 15:54:43 +0000

As I write these final words, it’s been six weeks since the suitcase returned to its owner, but I now realise that a small trace of it has never left. When sifting through a pile of papers untouched since June, the suitcase unexpectedly makes a return: a final Polaroid I took of it upon its arrival at my home falls out from a book’s pages.

So this memento of the suitcase will remain with me in its stead. But would it not be unkind not to let this, albeit virtually, also travel? I send a scan of it to John and can but wish it bon voyage.