1

Dea

dli

ne

0#

First steps

We are starting.We’re researching. We search for ourselves. We tame ourselves. We’re walking. We’re roaming. We wander. We loose ourselves. We miss. We find. We find ourselves. We are merging. We protest. We laugh. We speak. We listen to each other, or we don’t. We’re talking. We are hearing. We chat in every language. We’re singing. We play. We cheat. We win and loose. We are trespassing the lines.We will go off the rails sometimes. We are alive.

2

Chemin de fer

I was thinking of how we would put in order the texts and pictures for this Deadline #0. In French, and in journalistic slang, when you decide on which page you put each contribution in a newspaper, you build a chemin de fer of the publication. And chemin de fer means railway. No wonder we are sometimes off the tracks.

The main issue of “Mechanisms For An Entente” is the production of a multiform collective artwork, to promote a deep aesthetic, philosophical and political reasoning about the becoming of Central European countries in relation to the idea of the European Union.We want to work the nature of the European condition.

by V.S.

(text on cover by Valérie de Saint-Do)

3

Every time I take a train in France –

especially the TGV, High Speed Train –. I am struck by what the railway stations have become : kind

of small, frozen and cheap airports. It’s particularly obvious in the stations that have been built in no man’s land, only for the TGV connections,

estranged form the city centers (in Avignon, for instance).I remember sleeping in Gare du Nord in Paris twenty-five years ago, before taking a train

to Calais on my way to London (Eurostar was not in use then). I remember that in Bordeaux, as in many cities, in the 80’s, the railway station used to be a shelter for homeless people whom

begun to be more and more in France. I remember that one of the goals of the station renovation was precisely to keep them away. In fact, we have less and less night trains in France, and the stations have

ceased to be a weird place for strange meetings and precarious hospitality.When I went to the railway station in Krakow, I felt taken years back. As in Bucharest and in Cluj.

It is a challenge, of course – as the very interesting discussion we had with the technical director of CFR, Emanoil Culda– to modernize the railway infrastructure in Central-East Europe. But you can’t help hoping that the mistakes

we made will be avoided, and that, for instance, railway stations will stay the strange human places of transit they have been.

Station to station

Gara de Nord in Bucharest photo by Mathieu Lericq

by Valérie de Saint-Do

4

Here's to you O brotherHere's to you on the railway

Here's to you the PolishHere's to you from ParisHere's to you the SlovakHere's to you the Basque

Here's to you the HungarianHere's to you the RomanianHere's to you from BordeauxHere's to you Roma people

Here's to you the researcherHere's to you the performer

Here's to you the curatorHere's to you the reporter

Here's to you the sociologistHere's to you the anthropologistHere's to you the photographerHere's to you the choreographer

Here's to you the architectHere's to you the poet

Here's to you the historianHere's to you with no name

Here's to you BucharestHere's to you Budapest

Here's to you Cluj-NapocaHere's to you DraculaHere's to you Kosice

Here's to you Nowy SaczHere's to you city of WarsawHere's to you city of CracowHere's to you city of Plavec

Hail to the ghost of Erszebet

Here's to you sons of communismHere's to you girls of Mechanisms

Here's to you the FabricaHere's to you TabackaHere's to you Bakelit

Here's to you all the artistsHere's to you the activistsHere's to you in the bars

Here's to you the hangoverHere's to you kino-wagon

Here's to you all and fuck the morons

On our first evening in Cluj, a few of us had a drink up the hill, and we spontaneously began to sing. Seydou

asked me : « Don't you know a french punk song » ? And immediately, Salut à toi », from the Bérurier Noir,

came to me. It used to be a real anthem in the 80's, and I began to improvize to adapt it to the groupe

and the project. And then, I translated it into english, and Jarek into Polish...

>

>

>

,

Mechanisms Anthem

adapted by V.S.

5

photos by Marta Jonville

6

1 VII 2013r

Przybycie. Ja, Rom, Jarek. Przychodzą po nas: Saydo, Tomas, Łukasz, Nils, Lujza. Jest wieczór, ciemno, ptaki na nas nie srają, bo śpią Birds do not shit on us, because they are sleeping. Gadamy na dworcu, potem idziemy. Po drodze Nil i Rom siakają na murek. Centrum miasta. Zatrzymujemy się w sklepie. Kupują piwo. Łukasz, Saydo pytają: pomóc ci z bagażem? Gentelmeni. Łukasz, Seydou asked: Do you need help with your luggage? Gentlemen. No,

przyjemnie. Barbara and I put our chairs in the sun. Hot, nice. Łukasz sam. Jarek, Basia, Lujza razem. Grupkami wychodzimy. Czekam na Roma. Idziemy. Wędrówka, wędrówka, wędrówka. Piwo w knajpie. Wędrówka. Metro. Wędrówka, wędrówka, wędrówka. Kino wagon wieczorem. Pierwszy obiad po. Dobre, tradycyjne rumuńskie jedzenie. Kieliszek wina i mały papieros. Potem taniec w Control. Piwo, taniec, papierosy, my, my, my. After that is dance in Control. Beer, dance, cigarettes, we, we, we.

This story is not about a gun

thanks. Nie, dziękuję. Może jednak, powtarza wciąż Łukasz, w końcu przestaje. Droga do hostelu z bagażem na plecach dłuży się. Dochodzimy. W hostelu party integracyjne dogorywa. Ja, Romek, Jarek idziemy w miasto. Stare miasto bukaresztu. Brutalne kluby i kawiarnie. Old town of Bucharest. Btutal clubs and coffees. Pół nagie kobiety w oknach tańczą na rurach. Bolą nas nogi. Wracamy. Śpimy.

2 VII 2013r

Śniadanie. Powitania. Poznawanie się. Potem wolna ręka. Trochę słońca wpada na dziedziniec. Ja i Basia stawiamy krzesła w promieniach słońca. Gorąco,

Diary of the summertime trip

This story is not about a gun. I celebrated my birthday this year, 7-7, like every year, this time in Cluj, Romania. Lately

I get this very special present for my birthdays, a new friend, and even though it is not common for party acquaintances, these friendships proved to last and enrich me. These gifts were not intended by anybody, but still I got them, for me,

to be a happier person. Best gifts for me you cannot own, and I think precisely for this they rock it so much. A friend

is something sacred, something you should take care of and cherish, friendship is the best thing that can happen to you in

life. Body is essential for this life we have, but as long as you dont share your corporeal experience with others, it is not

that pleasant to be a human being. So this year I was partying in Cluj, and on the way back from the rave we stopped on the

playground close to our hotel, and this is where my new friend Paul broke my tooth on merry-go-round, by accident. None

of us was happy about this, but still it was a good party night. A tooth is something that can get fixed, moments with your

friends can not be taken away from you. Yesterday Paul told me his best friend has her tooth broken exactly the same way

as me now, which I see funny and cool at the same time, and I am sure that wer’e going to be supercool buddies for long time. The gun I got from my longtime friends Bea and Kubo. This is

what this story is about.

by Joanna Bednarczyk

by Lujza Magova

7

3 VII 2013

Podobno mamy wyjść z hostelu o 10 ran. Wychodzimy o 12. Zwiedzamy muzeum etnograficzne. Jest pięknie, jest wiejsko, chłopsko, prosto, misternie. It is beautiful, rustic, peasant, simple, subtle. Piękne ubrania, wyszywane złotą i czerwoną nitką. Drewniane meble, zdobione półokrągłymi motywami. Nogi bolą w każdej kolejnej sali coraz bardziej. Większość jest – zachwycona. Godzina, może półtorej i wychodzimy. Przed muzeum Mathieu robi zdjęcie wyciągniętych ramion. In front of the museum Mathieu takes a picture outstretched arms. Najpierw w prawo, potem w lewo. Idziemy na rynek. Rynek jest ogromny. Są tam mózgi, płuca, nerki i ozory zwierząt. There are brains, lungs, kidneys and tongues of animals. Chałwy, sery, orzechy, owoce, ceramika. Wszystko. Mamy tylko pół godziny, żeby to wszystko zobaczyć, dotknąć, zapamiętać. Potem let’s go, idziemy dalej. Na chodnikach starsze kobiety sprzedają czosnek i kalafior. Kiedy widzą policję, uciekają tłumnie. On the sidewalks old women are selling garlic and cauliflower. When they see the police, they escape crowds. Kolejne muzeum. Sztuki współczesnej. Cztery piętra. Wszyscy prędzej czy później wpadają w irytację i jadą windą do baru. Everyone

– sooner or later – fall into annoyance and with lift ride to the bar. Piwo, papierosy, żarty. Małe rozmowy. Wracamy do hostelu. Po drodze mały performance - Lujza. Nie mam majtek przez cały dzień. Nikt o tym nie wie. Wracamy piechotą. Kawał drogi. Upał, kręgosłup drga znudzony tą całą wędrówką. Obiad. Kolejna impreza. Nowy klub. Gołe niebo. Trawa. Trawa.

4 VII 2013

Performance Romana ma być o 11 rano. Budzę się i pytam go: czy wiesz, że twój performance powinien trwać już od 20 minut? I wake up and ask him: did you know that your performance should last 20 minutes already? Roman zrywa się z łóżka. Zbiega na dół i ładuje do pudła wszystkie swoje rzeczy. Daje Gulliamo 5 euro. Wszyscy stopniowo wychodzą. Tłumaczymy z jarekim karty. Rom szuka materiału na buty. Znajduje i robi je. Czarne lakierki a’la klapki plażowe. Winogronowa ozdoba. Po południu performance. W sklepie. Wyganiają nas z jednego, więc idziemy do innego. Tam witają nas z otwartymi ramionami. In the shop. In this place we are kicked off, so we go to the other. There welcome us with open arms. Gra muzyka. Potem znów to samo – obiad. I znów – party. Nie opłaca się spać. O 5 rano wyjeżdżamy. Na kacu żegnamy Bukareszt. Hungover, we goodbye Bucharest.

5 VII 2013r

5 rano, jedna taksówka, druga, trzecia, czwarta, piąta... 5 a.m. One taxi, second, third, fourth, fifth... Jedziemy do Cluju. Sen w całym przedziale. Sleep in whole roomette. Oczy zamknięte na widoki za oknem. Closed eyes not seeing view from the window. Papierosy w toalecie. Kanapka na kolanie. 12 godzin. Hotel, pensjonat jak z filmów

porno. Potem obiad. Rumuńskie menu, ale są obrazki. Jedzenie, picie, palenie. Rozmowy. Small talk. Potem after na wysokiej górze. W ciemności piwo i śpiew – starych hipisów i młodych darmozjadów. Plac zabaw dla wszystkich. Kindergarten for everybody. Piwo kotłuje się w brzuchu. Kręć w drugą stronę, wołają. Koniki, plastik. Idziemy do domu. We trójkę wspinamy się jeszcze wyżej. Tajemniczy club. Drukują gazety. Nikogo nie ma. Czerwone światło. Wracamy. Hotel porno, witamy. Hotel porno, welcome.

6 VII 2013

Spacer do lasu. Spacer do lasu. Jeszcze tylko 20 minut. Jeszcze tylko 20 minut. Only 20 minutes more. Piwo, spacer, piwo, spacer. Trzy godziny – jesteśmy na miejscu. Three hours – we are on the spot. Wracamy – taksówką.

7 VII 2013

Słońce, niedziela. Muszę napisać o tym, że nie przepadam za niedzielami. Nie przepadam za niedzielami. I do not like Sundays... Jesteśmy wysoko. W monastyrze. Między krzakami trochę seksu. Surowe owoce, brudne, niemyte wkładamy do buzi. Niedojrzałe. Wianek na dwóch głowach. Wreath on the two heads Ślady potu pod pachami. Dzwonią dzwony. Odjeżdża zmumifikowana ręka. Czarna ręka odjeżdża. Dzwony ustają. Bells cease. Pieniądze wepchnięte w szpary domu. We wsi mały bar. Palinka za 1,50. Palinka for 1,5 lei. Pociąg, powrót. Czy była tu burza? Znów obiad. Dwie dodatkowe butelki wina. Nikt nie idzie na party. Nobody go to the party. Wszyscy

8 VII 2013

Spotkanie na dworcu. Mały pokój, bardzo, bardzo gorąco, duszno, spać, spać, spać. Small room, very, very hot, stuffy, sleep, sleep, sleep. Ping pong i boks. Ping pong and boks. Zwycięża nieznany mężczyzna. Szczegółowe wyniki w białym dzienniku. Particular results in white diary. I cztery zupy. Four soups. Trzy zimne. Na ciepłą prawie nikt się nie załapał. Warm soup – almost nobody ate it. Potem koncert, koncert, koncert. Koncert.

8

June, wednesday the 26th, Bordeaux, France. I’m coming back by bus from a one month bike trip alone around Spain,

amazing. It’s 6 a.m. At the station, i say goodbye to Karim, a moroccan guy with whom i spent the last two days in Sevilla and Madrid, but mostly in the

bus. I note his email address in my book where is my passport and finally i go back home. There, i say hello to my roommates and to a friend whose staying there

for a last night before he leaves for Berlin. I have a train the next day to spend some days in Paris before i take the plane on monday, the 1st of July, to go to Bucharest,

Romania, and meet people from “mechanisms for an entente” to spend the summer with them. The schedule is tight, but feasible.

June, thursday the 27th, Paris, FranceI arrive in Paris and realize something is missing: the book with my passport inside. This is

where it all started…

I was almost sure to have it before i left, but nothing. Did i loose it in the train, did somebody steel it from me? I also remember me noting the Karim’s address at the bus station, maybe i forgot it over there,

who knows.. I always do that anyway, i forget, drop, break my things like i didn’t care. A week ago, i just forgot my sunglasses in a olive field. Two weeks ago, i broke a friend’s camera because i rolled trough water

with my bike. A month ago, my bike, another one, has been stolen, i mean, i forgot it in front of the house, thinking of something else, and somebody took it.

I check my pockets, my bag, nothing. I’m getting nervous. Maybe i forgot it at home, in Bordeaux. So i call my roommates to look for it, still nothing. I spend an hour, thinking on every place i could have drop it. I call the “lost

objects” offices, all of them in. Nothing. I call the police stations in Paris, nothing. In Bordeaux still nothing. I waited a day, in case somebody found it, but still, nothing.

Everything is bringing me to that simple conclusion: I lost it. I’m starting to be stressed out, understanding all the consequences of this lost.

June, friday the 28th, Paris, France. I go to the police station so they give me paper saying my passport is lost. Then i call the school, which is taking care of reservations

for plane tickets and everything. I’m almost shaking because , of course i didn’t want it to happen but still, it happened and finallyit’s hard to say :”Hey, i’m a shit”. Finally they’re so understanding that i’m almost ashamed and another plane ticket is booked for the 5th of July. The plan is to do an emergency passport. So i go to the town hall in Paris where they tell me that it’s going to take a while and that, anyway, they can’t do it there because i’m living in Bordeaux. I can’t do anything more but wait until monday to do it in Bordeaux. Frustrating week end.

July, monday the 1st, Bordeaux, France. I still have a hope that i lost the passport home. So i look everywhere, rooms, garage, bags, kitchen, bathroom, once, twice, nothing. I call back all the “lost objects” offices, nothing. I go then at the town hall with all the papers they need to make a new passport and the flying tickets saying that i’m supposed to leave on friday. They tell me it’s going to take 10 days. So i call back the school which uses of its relations at the town hall to make it goes faster. I should have it in 2 days.

July, wednesday the 3rd, Bordeaux, France.I’m waiting, stressed, almost depressed. I can’t do anything but wait. Frustration is my best friend. The passport is still not there. I’m imagining what they are doing in Romania, looking at photos, reading mails exchange between members of the workshop. And then… Then i receive a message, from my friend who left to Berlin saying “I have your book and your passport, i took them without paying attention, sorry”. I don’t understand straight and it takes some minutes for me to realize. He did it, no way… It’s hard for me to believe in it, but finally it makes sense. I came back home this night, i drop the book with the passport on the bar in the kitchen. He left while i was still sleeping, and he just took it, thinking the book was his. He has the same kind, the littles Moleskines ones. I ask him to send it quickly.

July, thursday the 4th, Bordeaux, France.The flight is tomorrow. The mail from Fedex arrived on the morning with my old passport inside. I call the city hall and ask them if i can use it. No way they tell me, you can’t use it anymore and you have to bring it back. I thought really strongly about going with this one, but seriously, i don’t feel like in a lucky mood and i really don’t feel like being stuck at the borders. So i go to the city hall to see if they received the new one. I received a call from school while i was waiting. The passport has been made, 2 days ago, but they have delivery problems so it will probably be there the next day which means that i won’t be able to get in the flight tomorrow. I go home, waiting again, thinking of my friend, thinking of the past week, looking at the old passport, doing nothing, overwhelmed.

Story of a failed departure

9

July, friday the 5th, Bordeaux, France. I go to the city town where they finally give me the new passport. I’m

looking on how to leave. I hesitate between a 40h bus trip on the 6th, or a flight on the the 8th to Budapest from where i’ll wait for everybody.

I finally choose the second option. I still have to wait, but this time i’m sure everything is ok. I have to confess that I’m still a bit scared of loosing my

passport but i promess myself to take care of it.

July, monday the 8th, Budapest, Hungary. Everything went fine, they didn’t even looked at my passport on borders…

by Alexis Emery-Dufoug

still from the movie “Morgen”

Story of a failed departure

10

KINO_WAGON #1TOMORROW MORNING, I WILL CROSS THE BORDER FOR YOU

by Mathieu Lericq

The kino_wagon sessions during the workshop started on the 2nd of July at the French Institute of Bucharest with the screening of “Morgen” (2010), a long-feature film directed by Romanian director Marian Crisan. Taking place in a little village near the Hungarian border called Salonta, the action shows a untypical friendship between

Nelu, a Romanian inconspicuous villager, and Behru, a Turkish immigrant who illegally tries to reach his family in Germany.

The film starts with a morning motorbike journey of Nelu, from the place he used to go fishing and the place he works. In between, a border separating Romania and Hungary. The sequence turns quickly into a metaphor : the fish that Nelu carries in his side-car cannot cross the border without certification. He thus must throw the fish in

Hungary in order to go back to Romania. The fish, without a proper “identity”, will die here, in the total indifference of the authorities. What the spectator does not know yet is that a second fish, in a human shape, will soon appear.

And, in contrast with the first one, he will pursue his journey despite a very uncertain road.The second fish comes from Turkey and wants to go to Germany. Without any sort of interest, Nelu gives him food

and hides him in his cellar. Their friendship creates itself beyond languages, conventions, moralities and laws. The film avoids the intentions in order to focus on the confrontation between a specific context and an unexpected relationship. That is probably also the reason why the director prefers to shape his film as a portrait made by series

of long shots, instead of a drama based of narrative efficiency.One of the questions that the film rises is : What immigrating means? The film does not give the answer but draws the outlines : a desire of passage, an impossibility to communicate, a possibility to be deprived from the only things you possess, an abandonment without identity, a long-term loneliness in unknown spaces. An endless in-between.

A second question is developped in the film : What a friendship can be based on ? A trust beyond languages and traditions, a possibility to start to feel again, to surpass the others’ and your own expectations.

At the end of the film, Nelu brings Behru in his motorbike side-car over the borders. That time, he will not use the official road. Thus, the man who clung to his hook will get the opportunity — the contingency, not the chance — to

walk ahead. An helicopter flies in the sky, turning the human will into a dangerous quest of dignity.

Next kino_wagon sessions : Three Polish documentaries screened in Cluj-Napoca (Fabrica de Pensule) on the 9th of July at 20:00, and “Silence and cry” (Miklós Jancsó, 1968) in Budapest (French Institute) on the 12th of July at

19:00.

,

still from the movie “Morgen”

11

Nils, the Atlant (Cluj): Atlant is a strong man, who is holding the weight of the world, in this case the building metaphorically and literally.

Revolutia din 1907, Pantelimon, Bucharest

compositions by Beáta Kolbašovská

12

This is the first picture. I asked her if she would like to be photographed. I just wanted to catch Simon with his hand in the cookie jar, and send the picture to his mother. She played the game. Her name is Nina.

Danilo saw the picture I just took and asked me if I could photograph him with his wife, Lili. “A lovers portrait” he said in Spanish. When I gave them back the picture she hid it for herself. He was happily pissed. Apparently it’s always the same.

text and photos by Tomas Matauko

13

Bobi bumped. He’s like a little nervous grasshopper. He has already travelled more than an Erasmus student and speaks three languages. He likes to show off his muscles by lifting watermelons.

I still don’t understand why Danilo wanted me to take this picture. The truck is not theirs. They insisted a lot. I decided not to understand and do as the wanted it to be.

14

Linda harvested nearly all fruits in Spain. She’s proud of it. She wanted to tell me her life in Spain and be photographed with a watermelon. She always comes back to Romania.

They asked me to make a family picture. The grandmother Linda, the parents Danilo and Lili and the son Bobi.

15

Rosana is 13 years old. There’s something strange about her. When I went back to give her the picture she was sleeping on the floor. She took a few minutes before recognizing me.

I was already leaving when Dario insisted on taking a picture of his grand daughter. When I gave him the picture the next day, he told me that this was the first picture of her. I’m so stupid, I don’t remember her name.

16

photo by Seydou Grépinet

17

sculpture by Roman Dziadkiewicz

18

photo and drawing by Julie Chovin

19

The so called "kopjafa" is a traditional grave-sign of an ethnic group of Hungarians called the "székely" in Transylvania (Hungarian: Erdély or German: Siebenbürgen). Székelys (Romanian: Secui, German: Szekler, Latin: Siculi)

used to serve as the borderguards of Medieval and early modern Hungary, and they still form a majority in certain parts of South Eastern Transylvania.

There are a number of "kopjafa" to be found in the cemetery in the center of Cluj (Hungarian: Kolozsvár), where the photos were taken.

The carved wooden signs on graves have symbolic meaning - the way they are carved refer to the person who is buried there, and the column itself in tis shape symbolises a human, with a "head", "body", etc. E.g. a star can refer to a man, a tulip to a

female, while a crown can refer to a leading personality, while a mace (weapon) to a person with a war-experience. Flames can symbolise a wise man or woman, while there were of course religious elements as well - cross, turban, etc. Below,

text was also occasionally carved, sometimes with ancient Hungarian "rovásírás" (runic writing).

Graves and symbols

text and photo by László Milutinovits

20

1In Cracow, where every few years people can hear about acts of extreme violence, in 1998 there was a brutal murder. The victim was a young woman. Police haven't yet found the perpetrator of this crime. I became interested in that case more than a year ago, when one of my friends, I do not remember who, said that the vampire from Cracow again revealed. I was then the assistant of Krystian Lupa, who had prepared at the stage of Stary Teatr (The Old Theatre) the stage performance inspired by the Alfred Kubin's novel The Other Side. A friend of the narrator from the childhood formed his own state, called the State of the Dream. In the State of the Dream having a new items and tools and building a new architecture are forbidden: houses, ordinary objects, works of art are imported from Europe and must be created before 1870 (sixties of 19th century are a limitation; Kubin published a novel in 1909). These homes are likely to be marked by crimes, death, loss, evil, Lupa understood it in this way. In addition, the memory, stored in places and buildings which are not only a part of the architecture or of the urban space, leads into real collapse.On the rehearsal, I repeated the rumor the vampire killer and possibly a ripper, which could not be identified, returned. After years again revealed. The rumor caused a stir, especially among actresses. Then I started to make a research for the more precise informations. It turned out that the investigators were found only traces of the murderer,

nicknamed "Furrier from Cracow". The victim: Katarzyna Z., 23 years old, a student of religion studies.November 12, 1998. Katarzyna made an appointment with her mother in Nowa Huta. They had to go on a visit to the doctor. Mother was waiting in the clinic. The daughter didn't come. Mother reported her missing to the police. When the case after twelve years suddenly again became public, the press reported information that Katarzyna had left the house every day going to the university, but didn't take a part in any classes. Apparently nobody knows what she was

Transcarpatium: The Victim of Furrier from CracowStory of brutal act of violence in Cracow: Furrier took a skin from his victim.

doing at this time. According to the simplified portrait presented in newspaper articles, Katarzyna was a shy girl and changed studies several times. At the beginning she studied psychology. After the psychology she started to study the story, but again she decided to resign. Finally, she decided to study religious studies, the direction which at the Jagiellonian University enjoys a reputation as a community of people experimenting with drugs used in shamanic rituals: it applies to both students and professors. The rumor about the experiments comes from my former roommates, who, as it seems, this year will graduate at the Institute of Religious Studies. The circle of people experimenting with drugs in Krakow is a broader, drugs in some way is a factor that co-creates their identity: the identity of the young intellectuals. New patron of the movement would be Walter Benjamin. Another one: Stanislaw Ignacy Witkiewicz, aka Witkacy.

Drugs are not suitable for the writing of the narrative. Benjamin and Witkacy's writings are nothing more than writings, literature descriptions. The drugs are distilled in a paper, nothing can be saved, experience eludes description. to be continued ...

text by Jaroslaw Wójtowicz photo by Marta Jonville

21

photo by Judit Kurtág

22

by Lukasz Jastrubczak in accompanied by Tomas Matauko

Several motives on letter S - sculptures

23

write here or don’t

write

24

Deadline staff:

Valérie de Saint-Do = editor Tomas Matauko = co-editor Łukasz Jastrubczak = design & layout list of participants of the project: Agata Dutkowska Alexis Emery-Dufoug Beáta Kolbašovská Cristina David Desmesure collective / Agathe & FredEdyta Masior Filip Przybyłko Guillaume du BoisbaudryJan Sowa Jarosław WójtowiczJoanna BednarczykJudit KurtágJulie Chovin Kubo Pisek László MilutinovitsLujza Magová Łukasz JastrubczakMałgorzata M. DudekMarek MardosewiczMarta Jonville Mathieu Lericq Nils Clouzeau Palce Lizac – Dominika & BarbaraPaul Maquaire Roman DziadkiewiczSeydou Grépinet Simon Quéheillard Thomas DesmaisonTomas Matauko Valérie de Saint-Do edition of 200 copies / july 2013 Cluj-Napoca http://blog.mecanismespourentente.eu

,