Hyperware & muted

Milica Agbaba

I am a London-based curator and artist of Serbian diaspora heritage whose practice centres on iconography and interdisciplinary approaches to culture. Having been raised in two cultures, I developed a strong interest in cultural history and the construction of the self during my undergraduate studies in History, specifically exploring material history. I am currently pursuing a Master’s degree at UCL SSEES, where my research continues to explore identity and representation. I have been influenced by the writings of Walter Benjamin, particularly his fragmentary and aphoristic style. As such, I have begun to experiment with opinion writing and alternative narrative forms alongside my curatorial work, with my practice seeking to challenge conventional ways of organising and presenting knowledge, with a heavy focus on accessibility. I aim to make culture and experiences more widely understood through rethinking how information is shared.

Hyperware & muted

Maybe, maybe, maybe. Fog and mist have become friends, yes, that’s why we call it brain fog Milica. But the symptoms don’t seem right, millca, no millica, that’s exactly what it is, the NHS website describes it. No, but i’m not sure, but it feels more clouded then the symptoms outlined, but I feel displaced, my material surroundings do not register, but do I really feel like this, maybe i’m just not focusing enough and need to ground myself, but I do really feel like this-what if i’m just unfit–but my eyes feel heavy, my mind buried under fine sand that no matter how much I sift away remains, specks inhibiting my sight. My sight, but not my vision; my eyes–but–the floor looks fine, if I can just stand up. But, the bed feels so set against my escape; searching for a way out, a computer can run diagnostics, l think I should do that.

Have a look at my shoulders, square and set. Constriction. My muscles appear fine, touch them, tight, unable to unteather from my unrest. Someone has mentioned that I keep my stress on my shoulders. wouldn’t you also. You speak a language that no one else understands but they respond. Your shoulders would hang high. Stretch and relax, lift yourself up, elongate, relax.

I cannot make the world register.

In relaxing and eloganting the arms, my ticket upwards perhaps, I think, but they do hurt, bring them down, fingers are pulsating, but maybe now i’m paying too much attention, no, my arms hurt, they want to rejoin the bed, plummeting down to earth like Aretmis II, burning including.

My chest, my cage, my innards, my blood, I think? -Am I calm? No. Beta-blockers in lieu of medical attention anyone?

My quills are up. My chest bounces with my breath. I feel like moving, constantly, no, stopping, no, moving, but why is this, my head says stop, my body says I am at exhaustions door, my heart can’t stop moving, left, right, up, down, please. The room closing in, can I rip at the material surrounding me, I think it can bring me back, back to just a reality. Ok. I said to my doctor can she not see my heart breaking, can you see my pain, can you see me. Not a question, a plea. Have I spoken a foreign language, she is staring at me. But she replied in English?

You heard that click? My knees on occasion sporadically, rudely not checking in, click and ache. I heard this from menopausal women and the internet telling me and my doctor and my family, you need to exercise more, you can’t, you’re too young. My knees click again, you hear them, a knock of reality at my door but not yours, you aren’t listening. My lungs like laundry hanging to dry from recognising their wasted potential, taking on gravity and not spirit. Can knees buckle, can brick speak medical jargon?

My feet, my precious feet, so beautiful at the ankle, the thinnest part of a porcelain doll. But my precious feet, dragging me down my Santiago de compostella route, Shephards bush road. Will I find St. James? I drag them down the concrete path and onto my beloved 295. My poor beautiful feet, the water is rising in them, ebbing and flowing, rigid in their defiance. I love my sturdy watery feet, carry me through the storm. Stopping? Is that a word to my feet?