"I write to you, my dear friend, whom I cherish as much as life itself, with the unwavering certainty that this letter will surprise you — hopefully sparing you a grief too unbearable. I wish to inform you of the strange circumstances and the facts related to the disappearance of Joseph, your husband, and deliver into your hands what may have been left of his shadow.

Above all things, you must try to read this letter by giving it your closest attention. Only then should you be able to gaze upon everything that has survived the disappearance of this strange man, whom in some way you still love.

At first glance — such was your resolution in expressing the utmost detachment regarding this case —, I was inclined to suppose on your part the absence of all sympathy or goodwill towards me, and everything I insist on telling you.

Your world had to be severely agitated by the present time in which nothing has a persistent value. No date nor hour appear to be of any relevance anymore. But do remember, my dear, that you mean the world to me, and nothing to so many others. You ought not, for the sake of Joseph, to change your ways, for he was truly a free spirit. Clearly all of that seems to be of no importance to you. At night, in endless weeping, you have never ceased to ask yourself what good is freedom when you have nobody to love, and nothing to believe in.

As you are probably aware of, he had had a visit the night he disappeared. Up until now, nobody could discern who the visitor was. Well I do know who visited Joseph that night, but the time has not yet come when I should tell you.

Do you remember the man wearing grey who crossed Peter’s path that afternoon, at Mr. John’s? You may well imagine for the time being that he was the one who paid him a visit. Instead of pulling the most extraordinary objects out of his pocket, he forced Joseph to vanish into it, making him disappear forever more. Or you could imagine that it was me who killed him while diligently staring at him, causing his body to disappear — as in a magic trick.

You most certainly won’t believe such possibilities. Feel free to come up with any other, in order to justify some inner fear you deem too hard to explain. Be it as it may, this was definitely not my purpose in deciding to write to you. I much rather intended to make clear to you what Joseph left to the world, as a trace, inside that brown briefcase he stubbornly carried everywhere with him.

That same briefcase was found open, its whole content scattered about next to his clothes. It consists of a collection of images crammed with your presence, though at the same time full of so many others, and of himself. It is thus maybe not the strange facts of Joseph’s disappearance that I aspire to tell you by writing this letter. More than that, I wish to call upon the strangeness there is about a soul leaving behind, like a body of work, a set of images — you could no doubt call them a collection, if you so wish.

And yet, my dear, what do you know about this man? What knowledge do you possess on anyone? None, and even all that he left behind, that which has now become my duty to pass on to you, will not provide you with the least sign with regard to Joseph, even though you may have shared your life with him.. Clearly I should not send you these images, for you won’t make any use of them, and truly they are useless in every respect.

I most definitely will not describe them to you. Do observe them though, and judge by yourself. As for me, I will simply quote the beginning of a poem...

Rappelez-vous l’objet que nous vimes, mon âme,
Ce beau matin d’été si doux:
Au detour d’un sentier une charogne infâme
Sur un lit semé de cailloux

Adriana Molder
"The Passenger"
Vera Cortês, Agência de Arte
Avenida 24 de Julho, 54, 1º Esq
Terça a Sexta, 11:00 - 19:00;
Sábado, 15:00 - 20:00
1 de Março a 19 de Abril de 2008