Alp Serif Besen

keywords:
a game we played back in elementary school waiting for the recess, waiting, sth that is sure to end but not sure when, meditative, found paper, scrap pages, daily routine
material:
found paper, corrugated cardboard, pins
dimensions:
120cm x 300cm x 25cm (bounding box of the backdrop)
exhibited in:
ALMOST TOUCHING, İMÇ5533, 04.2024

Pandemic Timer is a reenactment of one of my childhood games. I remember, back in elementary school, we would often have classes when the teacher did not show up or ended the class long before the break, and thus my friends and I had lots of spare time. In truth they weren’t really spare times. We were not allowed to step out of the room. We simply just had to stay indoors and wait until the bell rang – a point in time that was unknown to us since we didn’t have watches as kids. But waiting was no pleasant way to pass the time for a kid. So we invented games and competitions. One of them was to “count and write”. Each of us would bring out some empty pages and start writing from 1 and keep going: 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27 ……… It was a competition. Whoever could write to the highest number when the bell rang would win and we would buy them a snack from the cafeteria. I remember, arriving at 1000 was a big deal back then, for our little fingers could only write up to 3-digits.

We used to focus on counting so much that we lost ourselves in a repetitive motion of typing. In essence, it was meditative. We knew the bell would eventually ring but we didn’t know exactly when. We would wait for the uncertain certainty. And in doing so we created our own rhythm. Our rhythms competed with each other but were also in a collective unison. We often peeked into each other’s pages to see where each of us were. Our paces would rise or slow down in comparison to each other.

When the pandemic hit, I had so much time to myself. I thought and contemplated so much about my childhood. I started writing a memoir. Every word I wrote brought memories I have long forgotten. Somewhere between my childhood traumas and daddy issues I remembered this game. After a while of deconstructing what this game was in its essence, I thought this could become a way to pass time in general during the pandemic. 

I gathered some old spare pieces of paper, whether they’d be receipts, toilet paper, packaging etc., and placed them in a cardboard box. Then I promised myself that I would start from 1 and keep on writing & counting until the pandemic ended. 

The pandemic shared some similarities with those classes from my childhood. Pandemic was sure to end some time. At least we hoped it’d do so soon. But we didn’t know when it might end. And during the pandemic, not allowed to step out of our houses, we were sort of left with no choice but to entertain ourselves. 

I didn’t push myself so hard to write the numbers constantly. I only wrote whenever I felt like it. I created my own rhythm – my inner clock. Sometimes I wrote a thousand numbers and sometimes I wrote only twenty. Sometimes I was in a rush, sometimes I had hours to waste. Sometimes I was patient, sometimes the numbers only looked like scribbles. In total, I arrived at somewhere above 18000. But, writing didn’t end when the pandemic ended. It ended when I wanted so. It was over in my mind. Maybe I made peace with it. Maybe I was bored of it. Or maybe I convinced myself that it was over.

Who can say that the pandemic really ended? To this day, it still affects our daily lives – in maybe less obvious ways. If nothing, I still maintain some of the habits I acquired during the pandemic. So, in a way it still goes on. But collectively we decided that it was over. Curfews, masks, bread making are no longer part of our lives. Deaths, intubation and emergency rooms are not as relevant as they were a few years ago.

So when does the waiting begin? Is it where there is uncertainty? Or is it when we are not allowed to do anything else? Is waiting a choice, or the only thing we are left with? And when does waiting end? Is it when the veil of uncertainty is lifted? Or is it when we get to decide that the uncertainty is no more relevant?

I consider this work as a diary or an archive. It was simple in terms of material. I only used pens and spare surfaces to write on. However, it was a long journey spread over months, even years. In short, it is a documentation of my inner rhythm throughout the early months / years of the pandemic.