Skin

I finished the "egg book" (The Melancholy of Anatomy), and have now forced it on Katrine. I am in desperate need of a second opinion. And googled Jackson, the author. While The Melancholy..., on one hand, disgusted me, it was fascinating in its complete postmodernism.

Another project of hers is Skin, a work published on the skin of volunteers. It will, she claims, never be published in the traditional sense. A single word per person, tattooed on a place of their choice. Her words, she calls them, the people that make up her book, or work. Only the words will get to read the finished work, on paper.

The idea fascinates me. A book that, if a word dies, will forever be incomplete. Jackson lives on, on the bodies of her words. And when they die, the work is no more. I read somewhere that some of the words had asked if they could pass their words on to their children. It is a very romantic idea, and it intrigues me. Jackson also seems to be toying with sending her words a vial of her ashes, in the event that she dies before them. Not highly unlikely, considering that she is older than most of them. Tattooing the word of some favourite book on my wrist seems such a lovely gesture. People tattoo bubbles on their wrists, symbols of their favourite element, parts of the periodic table, elves and invented language. Why should I not attach my passion to my wrist? Why the wrist? Because wrists fascinate me; They are fragile, slender and attached to the hands; Lovely fingers and pretty nails. A single word on my left wrist. In Times New Roman, size twelve.

Skin, as reported by the Guardian

Skin

I finished the "egg book" (The Melancholy of Anatomy), and have now forced it on Katrine. I am in desperate need of a second opinion. And googled Jackson, the author. While The Melancholy..., on one hand, disgusted me, it was fascinating in its complete postmodernism.

Another project of hers is Skin, a work published on the skin of volunteers. It will, she claims, never be published in the traditional sense. A single word per person, tattooed on a place of their choice. Her words, she calls them, the people that make up her book, or work. Only the words will get to read the finished work, on paper.

The idea fascinates me. A book that, if a word dies, will forever be incomplete. Jackson lives on, on the bodies of her words. And when they die, the work is no more. I read somewhere that some of the words had asked if they could pass their words on to their children. It is a very romantic idea, and it intrigues me. Jackson also seems to be toying with sending her words a vial of her ashes, in the event that she dies before them. Not highly unlikely, considering that she is older than most of them. Tattooing the word of some favourite book on my wrist seems such a lovely gesture. People tattoo bubbles on their wrists, symbols of their favourite element, parts of the periodic table, elves and invented language. Why should I not attach my passion to my wrist? Why the wrist? Because wrists fascinate me; They are fragile, slender and attached to the hands; Lovely fingers and pretty nails. A single word on my left wrist. In Times New Roman, size twelve.

Skin, as reported by the Guardian