Afterimage by Tomas Lagermand Lundme:

In 2001, Nan Goldin took photographs of a couple, Jens and Clemens, somewhere in Paris. Back then, no one knew what to expect, because they were waiting for something else. Back then, love was enough in many ways. It was all still playing out to the soundtrack of the 90s, when walls, fences, eastern blocks and cheap techno music fell to the ground, allowing people to meet at eye level in places that needed an embrace. There were many places that needed embracing. The same year Goldin took her photos of Clemens and Jens, another war broke out. The war of fear. All wars bear their own name.

I was in Paris in January 2020. By then, Paris had experienced its own war. A war of pain. This war tore out everyone’s hearts. A war that seems impossible to win does this to you. At the airport, people were already talking about something coming. You should report any flu-like symptoms. I always have symptoms, if I'm asked. Not that I'm a hypochondriac. More because I have anxiety, and anxiety sets the symptoms in motion. I rarely travel alone because I have anxiety about that too, so I had my husband with me. We didn’t fail the test, so we could go to the old Jewish quarter. We’ve made a rule never to be in Paris without going there for a falafel. Only Tel Aviv and the Turkish area of Berlin can beat that taste. My husband says it’s the spice. I say it's the love. You can always taste it.

We were in Paris for a long time. We should have been there even longer, but something began to happen. It closed the world down. We flew back to Denmark in the middle of the night in March. I thought this war should have a name. I wrote down many suggestions in my notebook. I didn't need to find the culprit, to vilify a nation or a bat. Everyone has carried something with them of this war, in which we all, in our own way, became both soldiers and our own enemies. I thought we could learn something from it. Not the postulating platitudes of community triggered by retreating, staying at home in what quickly became our little fortresses. From there, we could engage in our own strategies and systems, deploying a cold, unhelpful militia that did nothing but fall into trenches that only got deeper and deeper. No, I thought, we could learn something else. I walked around the Danish forests, hoping we would learn something from them.

When I came back from Paris, I went into exile. I got to know the silence. That must be the name of the war. Because it created the spaces that I think we needed. We didn't need death. You rarely do. But we needed the pause. I've lived in a forest for a long time. A forest that's miles away from Paris and Nan Goldin. Far away from Clemens and Jens. But not from love. And I guess that's what we've learned. Not that this was or is the decade of love or fever. It's a different virus altogether. Silence has a different voice, a different war. We were wounded by those shots.

We all have someone we've lost. There are still many places that need an embrace. We know that again. And we’ve learned to act on it. So I hope that's what we will do. All of us from the old world who have moved on and have started living in a new world. When I came back to the city, I stood in my own driveway and embraced my husband. Nan Goldin should photograph it one day.