I can read, I can’t stop reading
The old dance
the one from yesterday
old document
brittle




Who stands up and
Who sits down






Do you remember chewing the ends of yellow pencils and feeling tiny flakes of yellow paint spread across your tongue.
Do you remember that this is how we remember, by writing, and speaking what we write.
Do you remember old man’s shoes.
Do you remember I remember.
Do you remember color coordination between performers and audience.
Do you remember finding a beautiful shirt in the thrift store, realizing it’s made from 60% polyester and the internal negotiation whether many sweaty days ahead is an acceptable future.
Do you remember creaky old plastic.
Do you remember being turned on by documents.
Do you remember butt numb from sitting down.
Do you remember wall cool against the back of your head.
Do you remember porousness entering your perception after 10.30 pm.
Do you remember learning the word ‘legacy’ and the visceral experience of a gaping hole in your vocabulary being filled. At last, being a part. Not just you. Not just now.
Do you remember reading Joe Brainard’s I remember.
Do you remember remembering that memory is fiction, and that reality trumps fiction.
Do you remember many of Joe’s memories being sexy or about sex.
Do you remember soft attention.
Do you remember to plug in the lamp.
Do you remember wondering if we (the audience) are invisible to the performers.
Do you wonder how we could be so porous as to become invisible.
Do you remember wanting to be seen and spoken.
Do you remember love of language.
Do you remember fleshy marks in space.
Do you remember speakers turning slowly towards you.
Do you remember newly washed hair.
Do you remember David Wojnarowicz via Joe Brainard, and wondering if you made up that connection.
Do you remember enormous piles of books, papers, pamphlets, various documents on David Wojnarowicz’ floor, kitchen table and bed.
Do you remember a beige gaze meeting your shyness.
Do you remember a few chairs leaning against walls.
Do you remember one person on crutches. I don’t think they remembered me.
Do you remember waves of talking and laughter in the next room.
Do you remember waves of attention.
Do you remember islands on the floor.
Do you remember waves of silence.
Do you remember making marks in space.
Do you remember stepping on paper not noticing it there under your foot.
Do you remember leaning in towards a soft voice.
Do you remember looking lovingly up a wall.
















Do you remember Gaza, and Gaza’s libraries.
Do you remember becoming a sign.
Do you remember becoming a call.
Do you remember that 451 degrees farenheit equals 233 degrees celcius.
Do you remember more-than-human performers.
Do you remember glue on top of tape, so stiff and glossy and pleasant to touch.
Do you remember taking photos of pages of text and wondering will I ever look at these again.
Do you remember taking photos of pages of text and wondering will I ever look at these again.
Do you remember taking photos of pages of text and wondering will I ever look at these again.
Do you remember to not romanticize manual labour.
Do you remember that all labour is manual labour.
Do you remember glancing carefully.
Do you remember flapping folders in someones face, expressing love like that.
Do you remember wondering about plastic bags, not daring to touch, how preciously they sat.
Do you remember wanting to organize.
Do you remember wondering about editing.
Do you remember there are openings in the works we make. We work on something for a long time. We keep it open.
Do you remember a durational space as time stretched across architecture.
Do you remember waiting to be seen.
Do you remember wanting to be read.
Do you remember feeling comfortable around 10.45 pm.
Do you remember deep levels of satisfaction in sharpening a pencil in a pencil sharpener.
Do you remember every body watching every other body watching.
Do you remember the corners of our eyes tight. I put my weight against a wall to slide down. Folding legs.
This space is not mine, but it’s for me. I am here to witness.
I already ate. Do you remember being served piles of bound paper; documents, publications, bound, handbound, unbound, like magnets. Never not looking for answers within these covers. Finding inked keys.












Do you remember to look for holes and how to take care of them.






– I’m visible (performer)
– I’m visible (paper)
– I’m visible (pencil)
– I’m visible (stain)
– I’m visible (performer)
– I’m a wall
– I’m a hole puncher (hole)
– I’m a stain on the wall
– I’m full of holes
– I’m invisible (audience member)
– I’m a daffodil
– I’m a breath, a stubbed toe
– I’m not about you or for you
– I’m not present
– I’m really here










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Paper sleeps on top of paper

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1) Every Ocean Hughes, Uncounted (New York: Emily Roysdon, 2012–2015)
2) From Oda Brekke’s notebook, displayed in the performance at MDT, March 22, 2024
3) “Description is not liberation” Katherine McKittrick in Dear Science and Other Stories (Duke University Press) (pp 39, 44, 45, 128)

BY SARA KAAMAN

When I build something—a project, phrase, collaboration—there are little holes everywhere. I encourage the space between 0—0 Little gaps of intention that life fills up with conditions, with proximities. Little holes everywhere 0—0 little holes. Permission. 
Not to be the thing itself. It’s also a way of saying “with” 0—0 entanglement and alignment.
 Honoring a margin from a movement. 
Not to be the thing itself is a transition that is not a solution. Is this the queer form?

This notebook uses Crush, an environmentally friendly paper made in Venetia, Italy. Crush is made by recycling organic products (citrus fruits, kiwi, corn, coffee, grapes, olives, hazelnuts, cherries and lavender) to reduce the use of wood pulp and create a range of natural colors.

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(2)

(1)

(3)

Sara Kaaman is a graphic designer and artist studying how publishing meets performance, and how language meets human and more-than-human bodies. Her ways of working include writing, printmaking, drawing and publishing by paper and and voice. She is currently establishing MUNNEN, a project space for language-based practices and art in Bagarmossen, Stockholm. She holds a BA in Graphic Design from Gerrit Rietveld Academie in Amsterdam, and an MFA in Choreography (New Performative Practices) from Stockholm University of the Arts.

www.sarakaaman.com
www.munnen.ooo