How does this symbol differ from others?
I was just beginning to learn to read and write when I saw a cartoon that I still remember to this day.
In it, three men were horse riding. At one point, they all fell to the ground as the horses bolted on
ahead. Animated question marks appeared above each of the animals. The horses careered on, with
question marks hanging over them, and there was no further sign of the riders. Somehow, I became
convinced that the question mark meant death. I didn’t want to learn how to write it, and whenever I
was reading, I made sure to avoid looking at it.
How does an unfamiliar symbol differ from other signs and symbols? Until we can decipher it, it
may hold some aesthetic value, since we are unable to attribute any other significance to it. Perhaps
it can also complicate meaning – just like words in a foreign language, or a new, different alphabet
– and yet it simultaneously determines how much attention we pay to its beauty. Our unaccustomed
eyes follow the curves, register all the sharp edges. It’s almost like swimming around rocks – we
cannot tell how big they might be, or what may lurk beneath the surface. Can they actually hurt us;
will we even touch them? Whenever we cannot understand a particular symbol or sign, we look at it
a little longer, we often pay more attention. It’s kind of the same with romantic relationships.
Can we comprehend the language used by Małgorzata Szymankiewicz? I cannot really tell whether
I can understand it, or cautiously float around it, as if it were a hidden, underwater rock. Not unlike
music, it jolts my senses like a narrative uninterrupted with redundant anecdotes. If I were 23 years
old again, I’d write: “Schubert meets Björk at a Swiss lake.” Except I’m older now, and this dark
blue stain – that’s me. Its irregular edges reflect my experiences and everything that brought me to
the present day.
I sent a message, and now I’m staring at the screen. It was delivered, and this rips my soft insides
apart with anxiety. The three dots pulsate on the screen; the person I’ve texted is typing their
answer. What will it say? Will I be saved, or pushed off a cliff, straight onto these imperceptible,
underwater rocks? Perhaps the dots will suddenly disappear, and I’ll never know the answer. But as
long as they’re pulsating, we’re in this together. How will this symbol differ from others?
Agnieszka Drotkiewicz
transl. Joanna Figiel
How does this symbol differ from others?
I was just beginning to learn to read and write when I saw a cartoon that I still remember to this day.
In it, three men were horse riding. At one point, they all fell to the ground as the horses bolted on
ahead. Animated question marks appeared above each of the animals. The horses careered on, with
question marks hanging over them, and there was no further sign of the riders. Somehow, I became
convinced that the question mark meant death. I didn’t want to learn how to write it, and whenever I
was reading, I made sure to avoid looking at it.
How does an unfamiliar symbol differ from other signs and symbols? Until we can decipher it, it
may hold some aesthetic value, since we are unable to attribute any other significance to it. Perhaps
it can also complicate meaning – just like words in a foreign language, or a new, different alphabet
– and yet it simultaneously determines how much attention we pay to its beauty. Our unaccustomed
eyes follow the curves, register all the sharp edges. It’s almost like swimming around rocks – we
cannot tell how big they might be, or what may lurk beneath the surface. Can they actually hurt us;
will we even touch them? Whenever we cannot understand a particular symbol or sign, we look at it
a little longer, we often pay more attention. It’s kind of the same with romantic relationships.
Can we comprehend the language used by Małgorzata Szymankiewicz? I cannot really tell whether
I can understand it, or cautiously float around it, as if it were a hidden, underwater rock. Not unlike
music, it jolts my senses like a narrative uninterrupted with redundant anecdotes. If I were 23 years
old again, I’d write: “Schubert meets Björk at a Swiss lake.” Except I’m older now, and this dark
blue stain – that’s me. Its irregular edges reflect my experiences and everything that brought me to
the present day.
I sent a message, and now I’m staring at the screen. It was delivered, and this rips my soft insides
apart with anxiety. The three dots pulsate on the screen; the person I’ve texted is typing their
answer. What will it say? Will I be saved, or pushed off a cliff, straight onto these imperceptible,
underwater rocks? Perhaps the dots will suddenly disappear, and I’ll never know the answer. But as
long as they’re pulsating, we’re in this together. How will this symbol differ from others?
Agnieszka Drotkiewicz
transl. Joanna Figiel