here too / On my way residency, Z33 Hasselt,
a homeless gap between two addresses in Antwerp, I spent a week at Z33
in Hasselt, serendipitously invited by bolwerK
for a residency in the program "nepotists opportunists freaks friends
and strangers intersecting in the grey zone". I reached there with no
specific plans. Aiming at understanding the context, I interacted with
both ongoing exhibitions, leaving designed
personal traces, elements that I made inside one exhibition and added
within a set of interventions as a new layer in the other exhibition.
The installation aimed at linking the two exhibitions while at the same
time is a self-reference to my performative passing by.
Keys. Room. Nothing. Map.
I had an address, then I had none. I will soon have another one,
actually I already have it, on a contract that hasn't reach me yet.
Part of my stuff is stored at the new address in ten boxes, part of it
is at the old address in a box, a suitcase and a bag, and another small
bag is at the place of W, who kindly hosted me yesterday night as I
stopped a day in Antwerp, on my way from north of France to Hasselt.
Recognisable, R would say. The residency room is just fine: a bed, a
cupboard, a table and enough place filled with free space. The shower
is on the other side of the building. The exhibitions invite to
interaction. Think first. Ah but I did it already. Candle juice on my
fingers: one layer, two layers, three, four or maybe five.
Easter. Sunday. Kebab and frietjes with mayonnaise.
It took me quite a while this morning to go for a shower. The weather
is playing a joke, I thought; each time the sun seemed to take over the
clouds, by the time I got ready to get out, it started showering again.
There was an ironic link between the rhythm of the weather and that of
the wireless connection. I like to use slogans here and there. It
challenges the fixed images they promote when you put them in an
inappropriate context. I won’t do it now. (...)
is never about dialogue, even less about
“communication”; far from being a harmonious
discussion aiming at rational consensus, philosophy is more akin to a
violent encounter between heterogeneous forces that might open up the
possibility of thinking the New". - Gilles Deleuze and
What is Philosophy?
Monday. Wax fingers. Beer and links.
I woke up later than I wished I did today. I forgot all my cables at
W’s place in Antwerp, so my mobile phone (anyhow only
operating as an alarm) is out of order. My body follows it’s
own night dreams and rhythms. No details about the morning, as nothing
really happened. Grey in its full plenitude. The day is dry and sunny
and a second person has suggested the Japanese garden, so there I go.
First a proper lunch in the café that J introduced me to
yesterday: broccoli pure with salad and a far too large pot of meat
with dark souse, tasty but still keeping my stomach busy, ten hours
later. Describing the garden would require far too many, too specific
words and nuances. Thinking got instantly melted in a mesmerizing mix
of sensations that the garden bestows on whoever walks through it. The
one feeling I’d like to mention is the one that invaded me
when inserting my nose in the territory of one of the white bloomed
cherry tree, a travel back in time in the age of my
grandmother’s village, again, the euphoric lost in sensation
trip that one experiences when allowing that smell to take over the
imagery of the mind. Whatever I’d add to its description, it
would only spoil the authenticity of that moment. Find a cherry tree
and stick your nose into it, it’s the only thing I can say,
apologising for the imperative way of putting it.
Sun. New guest. Interventions. Sun.
Hot, liquid, viscous. Cold, solid, silky. Same place, same technique,
five new three dimensional fingerprints. White on white. White on wood.
White next to green and white. I may have a story to tell you.
“I may have a story to tell you”. I was here too.
In residence. Free hand. Free materials. In between too many official
addresses, in between several imaginary homes. A stranger in another
city. A stranger on a fake monastic retreat. Contaminating the hosting
exhibition with the other one across the yard. Invisible glue.
Connecting what you will decide to connect with what is here already.
Passing by, leaving traces. Anonymity undone. A name card, somewhere in
the shadow zone of the grey zone. A zone still to be defined. A name
card to be found later. A later that is named on a label. A label to be
named later, by another.
Label. Announcement. Departure.
I stick a label on the one empty wall of the
exhibition hall in which I left most traces:
Under the label, on the floor, I place the candle I used to glue the
fingerprints. Marking a transitory presence and interference in the
exhibition. I asked the label from one of the curators of Z33,
revealing my past day interventions to her. She had already noticed the
wax fingers. On the small table with the artist leaflets at the
entrance of the exhibition hall, I add my name card; I stick it on the
table. Later I remove it and place it back again, without gluing it. I
invite some of the present artists and curators to visit the exhibition
with me, and I capture their reactions on the traces I added. Packing
now, leaving in a few hours. M, who has invited me for the residency,
will be back here tomorrow.