Research 2016

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I have been switching between Oblomov (1859) by Ivan Goncharov and Noir. Histoire d'une couleur (2008) by Michel Pastoureau. Reading both simultaneously establishes a twisted turn of thoughths trapped in a languorous inertia, an eloge of the linen and layers covering the alited body, and considering black or more widely darkness as an opening to the european and russian history associated with it. 

What becomes a dark room as a refuge ? A place to tell stories ? to dream endlessly ? to exhaust bodies by inactivity ?