Angel

Paradise, perhaps, is this: to stand and have a bowel movement, and be happy.

The sun was good that day. The carers were helping change the diaper. We let him stand in the courtyard.

Joy and the pleasure of the sensation. The bowels opened freely. Clatter and splash. Pouring onto the ground, onto his trousers, onto the sofa.

The smell was strong. The scene unforgettable.

He stood there, a look of innocent joy on his face. Like a child who has just learned to use the toilet, waiting to be praised.

The farewell to my father was cruel and beautiful — unlike the farewell to my mother.

For six months, the artist stopped all creative work and devoted himself entirely to caring for his dying father. At the same time, he recorded daily life in charcoal: the state of his father regressing to a three-year-old child — the details of feeding, changing diapers, assisting with bodily functions — alongside the process of building a kitchen, a bedroom, and a garden for his father with his own hands.

This is a record that cannot be called a "work." It is the most honest emotional archive.