It’s the coffees & cigarettes and staring at the wall, the smell of the air that I breathe on my way to the studio, people and objects crossing my way, the mood I wake up with in the morning, the dreams I dreamt the night before, the way I spent the evening before dreaming, before going back to the studio with its conversations or dances or stupid dull series or great movies, stories I read, sounds crossing my ear: unexpected encounters and foreseeable desired coincidences.
I cross the room with long steps, tiptoe around anything fragile standing on the floor, flic-flac across power cords, tools, all sort of s*t laying around everywhere. I push and pull stuff from A to Z, drill and hammer holes into the walls, make a mess and clean up again, make a mess and clean up again, make a mess and clean up again, until things fall in place, 360 degree, finally making sense to my eyes, then stretch my arms high to the sky, crossing the clouds, crossing the atmosphere, trying to touch the universe. But rarely digging holes in the ground.
I read it, need it, feed it, hold it, fold it, scold it, collect it, stack it, smack it, reveal it, steel it, peel it, ask it, mask it, sort it, distort it, rearrange it, change it, bend it, lend it, befriend it. What’s that roll-off text on my desk?
I don't attempt to provoke, I try to touch.
A lost and found office.