He was talking about his print and I was trying to follow what he was saying. Suddenly someone blurted out a comment; another person took issue with it, and then a third voiced her opinion. The whole room was electric. Into this soporific environment of cushy chairs and modulated voices a word bomb had gone off, and people were arguing. I couldn't tell what was so contentious, but I could feel the vibe. When we broke for coffee, I lingered behind. A few people were clustered around John. I wanted to see the paper that was being passed around—the work that had caused the sudden change in mood. I found it on a chair up front. It was bluish, with bits of things in the pulp. There was a faint image and some words, but they were hard to see in the dim light, so I moved closer to the stage. I read halfway through when I suddenly felt a jolt in my body. I wanted to drop the paper as if it were on fire. I thought briefly of letting it go, but I was sure it would crack my toes from its weight. I was shaken to my core. I looked up to see if everyone had noticed what had just happened, as if a loud boom had gone off. But it was just in me; all around were the soft susurrations of the few remaining people talking. The first time you read John Risseeuw's print about arms trade victims, you are in for a gut punch, out of the blue. He has contacted relatives of victims of armed conflict in South Africa, Iraq, and elsewhere; asked for clothing of the dead; and used this clothing to make paper. When you read this, your mind jumps with the knowledge that you are touching that paper. You imagine the feelings of the victim's relative, and what the hideous story might be. You wonder what faith it takes to give up that clothing, a sacred remnant of the deceased, to a stranger. What can John say that can change despair into hope? All this happens in an instant, as soon as it sinks in that you are touching a dead person's clothing. Let me say this another way. I was having a nice day, looking forward to coffee and hoping there would still be a Danish left, and suddenly I was intimately aware of the cruelty and overwhelming pain in the world. How did this happen? I was just holding an innocent-looking piece of paper. It had words. But I read words about barbarism in the world every day in the newspaper, and I can slurp my coffee and enjoy my sweet roll while I read. I've become numb to suffering brought to me as words on paper. But this was different. John used clothing of the victims to make the paper. To make the paper. Part of the shock I felt was the sudden realization that it was the paper carrying the powerful ideas. I didn't know paper could have such muscle. That day changed my life. Later, as I came to know the men in the Combat Paper project, this idea came to life in another way. When I saw veterans cut up their uniforms to make paper I witnessed what a cathartic act of reclaiming life it could be. John, who has been influential to the Combat Paper veterans, was the first person to show me that the physical body of paper can be so powerful, so revelatory, and, hopefully, so healing.
