Poem read on the occasion of the ‘finissage’ event for JA! JA! JA! — an exhibition of print works, photography and installations by Zvezdan Reljic at R Gallery, Sliema.

Zvezdan Reljic is my father, and 3A, Panorama Flats is where our family was based for a number of years, and whose sofa featured as a prop in the exhibition.

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3A, Panorama Flats

The place is an afternoon. 

My room is a terracotta cocoon.

Etruscan. The texture of clay. Amphorae retreived from the bottom of the sea. 

We had a view of the same sea, once. 

The view that gave the place its name, I guess. 

The panorama thinning out over the years to make way for more apartments. 

But I allowed myself to think, none of the new apartments are like ours. 

I allowed myself to think: this is ours, and ours alone. 

I allowed myself to think, the cocoon will be there for me.

QUOTE, this place is huge. You guys are so lucky UNQUOTE. 

QUOTE, they don’t make them like this anymore, UNQUOTE. 

The place is an afternoon. 

The light lands on the corridor in a strong thin strip. 

Falls on the rusty back terrace. On the vintage furniture. The vintage furniture whose cousins we spotted in the wild once, at an exhibition commemorating Maltese modernist interiors. 

The light stops at the doors. Our doors. We each have a room. 

QUOTE, We’re not like your typical family, really. We’re more like flatmates. UNQUOTE. 

The place is an afternoon.

In the morning we disperse like rats. Into our rooms, or out of the place.  

And at night, others seep in. 

At night, the new people gather around the oaken table. 

QUOTE, My friends after midnight. UNQUOTE 

But the place is an afternoon, because then I’d sneak into my mother’s studio while she made dresses and sit on the sofa and talk about nothing. 

Now it’s a darkroom, and the time of day no longer matters. 

QUOTE, We’ll talk later. I have people coming over, UNQUOTE. 

The place is an afternoon, but there’s no longer a cocoon for me. 

The Etruscan room is whitewashed. Colonised and recolonised. But clean. Finally clean. We’re roommates, all of us roommates. 

The place is an afternoon. But if you sit on the sofa while you sip on a Turkish coffee you’ve been drinking far too late in the day, you can see the evening make its way in. This how you can start to say goodbye.

But it’s a process. You’ll need an instruction manual. But you won’t find it heaped among the books, papers and discarded prints. You’ll need to write it by yourself. 

So this is me trying. Here goes. 

Close the room that once made dresses and that now makes images.

Close the room to the corridor. 

You’ve allowed the place to become a box. 

The hard twilight hits the oaken table. And you realise, for the first time, that it’s not rough at all but that it gleams smooth, with a surprising freshness. 

You sit on the sofa. You sip that umpteenth Turkish coffee. 

The light sits on the neighbouring buildings until there’s no longer any of it. 

The place is no longer an afternoon, but the coffee won’t let you sleep. 

Get up, get out. 

It’s time to start walking.