Diagram of A Silent Garden
All white 3D render of an alarm clock
All white 3D render of an alarm clock
All white 3D render of an alarm clock
All white 3D render of an alarm clock
All white 3D render of an air plane
All white 3D render of an air plane
All white 3D render of an air plane
All white 3D render of an ATM
All white 3D render of an ATM
All white 3D render of an ATM
All white 3D render of an ATM
All white 3D render of high heels
All white 3D render of high heels
All white 3D render of high heels
All white 3D render of a mailbox
All white 3D render of a mailbox
All white 3D render of a mailbox
All white 3D render of a piggy bank
All white 3D render of a piggy bank
All white 3D render of a piggy bank
All white 3D render of a traffic light
All white 3D render of a traffic light
All white 3D render of a traffic light
All white 3D render of a traffic light

Diagram of a Silent Garden is an open call for a group show, using the title for a prompt and general invitation. Intended to reflect a range of practice in flux with Covid-19, we hoped to create a space to reconsider making work in our new condition. Initiated to be printed matter, not for sale, and distributed solely to the contributors, as our participant pool expanded the project naturally shifted into online form. We are proud to publish these pieces and thankful to those who took the time. This site has become a wide index of these practices, and in an ever-growing nature will continue to be open to new submissions, with the spirit of open discussion.

Core Team: Brian Sing, Jared Fellows; 3D Identity with Ted Youjong Kim; type design & web development by Jake Brussel Faria.

mem­o­ries from the Pleasure Garden

Samir Hakim

And in that same way that my in­ners had ex­ploded and burst like a split atom from my gut when Tycho ini­tially pro­pelled me into the third, I ex­ited with the same force, through worm­holes and fourth, fifth, sixth di­men­sional pas­sage­ways, through space and time, on the bor­der of re­al­ity and the Pleasure Garden, only to ar­rive in a void of dark­ness, where my mem­o­ries of the sur­real, of Tycho, Adolf, Adnan and Omar, of the match of Tug-o-war to de­cide my fate, of my van­tage point in the third, van­ished in a sin­gle in­stant, where all I ever knew and would know turned the color black, as if I was in a dark­room, or dead, but ob­vi­ously not dead, but sim­ply asleep, where I could dream vivid dreams, but where a fine dis­tinc­tion lay be­tween dream­world and re­al­ity, far away, far away from the pure­ness of the Pleasure Garden. What stayed with me was noth­ing tan­gi­ble, nor con­crete, but rather a feel­ing of hav­ing lived im­por­tant ex­pe­ri­ences, hav­ing met im­por­tant peo­ple whose names I did not yet re­mem­ber. Of hav­ing learned that I have much more to learn—all this ac­com­pa­nied with a firm­ness of char­ac­ter.

***

I opened my eyes in the flu­o­res­cent hos­pi­tal room and jolted my torso for­ward only to be de­nied by the ar­ray of tubes at­tached to me. No longer was I the wind. There he was, my fa­ther sit­ting in the cor­ner star­ing at me with his owl gaze, ready to tell me a story about two men, Adnan and Omar, who wipe out a baker named Momin clean of his stock. A story that takes place in Ottoman Beirut at the end of the 19th cen­tury. Dad will then tell me that these are my an­ces­tors, that I am re­lated to them and that my ex­pe­ri­ence, my ac­tions, were in ac­cor­dance with tra­di­tion, and he will look at me with fright­en­ing eyes, owl eyes, per­haps in dis­be­lief. I won’t un­der­stand him. Not yet. I won’t re­mem­ber Adnan or Omar, Tycho Brahe or King Adolf Frederick of Sweden, the orig­i­nal mar­tyrs of food. Nor the Pleasure Garden. I will lis­ten to my fa­ther with cu­rios­ity. I will en­joy the deep trem­ble of his voice; I will smile at his story—that I will—but it will not make any sense. Not un­til later. Not un­til I be­gin to write down all that I can re­mem­ber per Anne’s in­struc­tion. Not un­til I pick up the pen and be­gin to pour every­thing I knew into three Okinawa note­books. Not un­til I be­gin the ther­apy that would last one full year.

But on that day of my re­vival, my new birth­day, I knew noth­ing. I was re­born, a blank slate.


An ex­cerpt from my novel, Ashta.