In the presence of Mark's tape, I bid a farewell to the passing memory of humanity. In the age of memory sticks, my own memory is undertaking a major transition. I plug it in and let the cloudy current of shared human existence swirl me in the uncertainty of today. Yet, memory sticks. The odd fragments of tape torn from a parcel from the past, it sticks to my hands, to my clothes, to my conscience. I look in a mirror and try to brush it off, but some left unnoticed messes up the look of my up-to-date attire. Mark notices. He patiently picks it up, the sticky remnants of the past, and reconstructs the images. Rendered in tape, the miscellaneous subjects level with one another: a teenage snapshot pairs with a goddess's head; a movie still, a group of chairs from the Louis XV epoch, a knight's armor replace one another significantly indistinguishable in the postal tape. The colors washed, emotional ties long forgotten. Like a quiet lunatic, Mark goes on collecting fragments of tape carelessly left behind after another opening of a parcel from the past, rendering images without order, like the one with echolalia who repeats the words without meaning just for the sake of sound. Sometimes I feel that Mark's images in adhesive tape stick better to my fleshed memory than their colorful, moving, or three-dimensional origins. In the age of memory sticks, when the past becomes an extinct, Mark's tapes are the fossils of cultural remnants.
