Tamam Shud: An Artist's Novel

by Alex Cecchetti, Johanna Bishop (Translator)

"I am dead. Homicide, assassination, accident, suicide, the detectives have come up with nothing. The labels in my clothes, my fingerprints, my shoe size, everything has been unstitched, erased, wiped away, blanched, bleached, and consigned to oblivion. As the only clue, in a secret pocket sewn into my trousers, the detectives found a flimsy slip of paper torn from the pages of a book. On that folded bit of paper just two words, Tamam Shud, 'this is the end.' Experts, antiquarians, and opium smokers have been consulted, and all agree that these are the last two words in the Rubaiyat, an ancient collection of esoteric poems written by a Persian poet named Omar Khayyam. What the hell do I have to do with poetry, Persia, and hidden pockets? I cant even sew on a button. My identity is still unknown and not even I remember much. This is why I have decided to investigate my own death."

The Tamam Shud narrative emerged through a series of episodic performances and an exhibition by Alex Cecchetti at the Ujazdowski Castle Centre for Contemporary Art, Warsaw. For two years the writing process and the artistic process were interwoven, feeding each other as they evolved. The art project and the artists novel are linked together as much as the life of the victim is connected to the piece of paper found in his pocket.

284 pages, Paperback

Published June 1, 2018

Reviews

[Jon Zellweger · Rating 4 out of 5]

I’m not feeling of a subtle mind this week. And Cecchetti’s novel/document deserves a bit more…I think. Cecchetti is the guy that produced this lovely dialog during the pandemic: https://www.instagram.com/p/B-kD6uAoyjB/ I’ve followed him ever since. As a performance artist and poet, the novel was an outflow from episodic performances and an exhibit in Warsaw several years ago. The book is written in the first person, a dead person. Punctuation is limited, blurring the line easily between inner thought and quotation of other (living) characters. 2 detectives, ‘ginger’ and ‘twiggy’, seemingly ambivalent about their corpse’s cause of death, choose to enjoy food, drink and drugs more than determining whether it was murder, suicide or other — much to the departed’s frustration. The hedonistic, fuck-all quality of their approach to solving the mystery imparted impressions of Julian Cope’s equally bizarre novel OneThreeOne (mental note: time to reread that wild thing again) where one didn’t necessary feel there was a point other than the ongoing anecdotal, aphoristic observations on life. Lots about the nature of consciousness and the soul and where they might reside. But all is revealed, however bizarre and non-sequitur-ish. I laughed, I was confused, I laughed some more. It warmed my heart at various intervals. Beautiful embossed paperback, only 1000 printed.