... MEMORY AND THE MUSEUM ...


TERESA PETERS

After Buffalo mozzarella, that resembles giant puffball fungi, with Mark Dion and team ︎ and I head down to the ocean weaving through the entire town of Naples. I struggle to keep up with ︎‘s New Orleans stride as we race through the Nepolese kitsch avoiding the mosquitoese vespas. The trashy characters on the steamy bustling streets are as if from an Italian John Waters’ film. We swim in the ocean to a full moon, sanctified. The next morning down on the rocks I notice petrol oil swirling on the surface of the ocean glistening in the sun. Tantalisingly toxic. The Nepolise waste wars and the Triangle of Death cross my mind and I wonder Ashfalt Rundown 1969, is still somewhere nearby in Rome. I feel home sick for my small volcanic archaepalo. Tomorrow we will head to Pompeii. We get home the team show me the pieces from the show including a diarama of Vesuvius. The tourism of destruction is bizzare but I’m with the right gang to feel like a legit faux archaelogist. I capture the ruins on my camera already filled with so many undeletable photos, savoured from my recent nomadic lives in New York and Berlin. In the morning we paint sea creatures and a few days later I train to Venice, sitting next to a current member of Crowley’s Golden Dawn. I have no idea the main exhibition is The Enclypodeia of the Human Mind. Uncanny. Constantly deleting my archived photos as I maze through the Giardiani. In a moment I accidently delete them all. Napoli and Pompeii now just a strange rushing memory or maybe a dream.