I dream of my father: he is sitting in an empty room, cigarette in his hand, veiled in a cloud of white smoke. I am dumbfounded – he quit smoking some thirty years ago after a heart attack. I ask: “You started smoking again?!” “No”, he answers looking straight at me, “this is Holy Spirit.”
My father has been designing books for close to sixty years. He is 84 and still burning with this passion, still showing up daily for his work. I see him in his workshop, leafing through one of the books. There is this ridiculous stuffed parrot over his head that has been there for decades and some religious paraphernalia on the table, icons and candles – he became increasingly attached to religious iconography and ritual with advancing age. I think of the dream and make the photo. I know the title even before I start “Holy Father, Holy Spirit”.
1. Mlekarice spavaju. Posluga spava. Mesari spavaju i jagnje je još živo. Poštar crvlja ispod zamrznute zemlje, na grudima steže torbu punu pisama. Bog je fabrika stiropora. Na ulici gore devojčice u belim haljinicama, male žive buktinje. Muškarci…