Jaakko Pallasvuo’s Hole is a video that happens in many places at once and sure time was already relative, but now time has collapsed. The video moves onward like it’s drawn, through speedy references, developing itself into a book of symbols. The narrating person lingers in angst, inspecting itself, digging little holes. I imagine the person curling up into a ball so tight they disappear. It’s kind of magical what happens between the images, because they are interconnected so invisibly that the video pulls ideas out of my imagination, I have a headache.
I think the narrator’s sock changes color, but I know that’s my fault, I’m color blind. And certain people have asked me over the years what does it feel like to be color blind, which is an ignorant question. None of them know each other, but they all sort of have the same main personality traits, I think they think they know the truth. And I don’t think there is a truth. There’s rhythm and style and form, all relative and moldable. There’s content too, don’t get me wrong, there’s the Christ and the organ and the choir. I don’t remember in which order, but even if I did I still wouldn’t believe that order to be true.
Every piece of ripped jeans is a riddle of authenticity: did it really happen? Did that hole become a real hole by itself, or did someone tear it intentionally, was it the person carrying it now or someone else? Some people are really gifted in tearing holes, natural born killers, they just tear the hole at once on their shirt and the hole immediately looks perfect, I am not. But I admire them, the talent and the craftmanship, though their intention might make the hole fake. I’m a failure, which is just the nostalgia of growing up, and I predict my teenage self would hate me now, because I’m able to only make these paper cuts that aren’t even deep enough to deserve a bandaid, that would be a waste.
Yeah, every wound is a hole, no matter how shallow. But every roundly shaped thing can be a hole too. Every video is an eye, crying for help. All angst is boredom and laziness. On my teenage favorite tv show a distant artistic aunt character discovers her niece is an artist and says to her: you are an artist, but you can drop the generic apathy crap, that’s just laziness. You know what’s really generic about the niece’s apathy? The man who wrote her lines. Like you probably know the rumor about Kurt actually having written Live Through This? Courtney’s super upset about it and I can totally comprehend why. The tragedy is that we’ll never really know, we just have to choose what we believe in. I’m sort of in-between about it, I’m pretty indecisive, on a leash waiting for someone to dig me up, someone who has proof. I’m desperate for certainty, though I don’t necessarily care who wrote those songs, since it wasn’t me.
— Niko Hallikainen