Is the body a drag or a turn on?
2022
(performance duration: 25 min)
I wake up
Mouthful. Chomping on some words - leftovers from yesterday’s lunch. I spit little bones, which I collect in my pockets, and later I simmer their meaning into a calcium broth.
While I slurp it till the last drop, my body synthesizing these wild fluids, I begin to feel the ground extracting, sucking all that’s left to suck beneath my buttocks. It’s alive. Breathing.
I wake up
The pressing of the tissue bouillon is stronger than the pull of the warm duvet. Darkness embraces the room, I navigate through it by memory. To get to the bathroom, I turn on the light. Blinded, my eyes become slits, my vision a tunnel.
...
I wake up
...
... from the piercing smell of the sewage fumes brewing up the intestines of the city. The air is warm. Heavy. Penetrating. My bum is wet and my shoes covered in mud. I’M PISSED
the street is a cavity bouncing the echo of my teeth grinding.
I skid and slide on an ambiguous layer of filth that’s wrapping the pavement.
My traces cutting into this substance. The moon is staring at me. My body casting a deep sharp shadow.
I clap my hands together
Like a half dead moth, I pick myself up with two fingers and, while holding myself in my palm, I try to stretch back my trembling wings to then nail my feeble body to the wall with precision - each nail piercing each wing.
...
I wake up
...
... unusually well lubricated, as if someone had rubbed butter all over my body. Oils sinking into the epidermis, into the bones, into the bedsheets, into the mattrass ...
I reach for the glass of water on my bedside table but once I try to grab hold of it, it slides down my hand and shatters into pieces.
I gaze at the small puddle of water intermixed with glass, curly threads of hair and dust particles.
the water is gliding through the curves of the floor, guided by the sagging of my Dutch house - I look down and see myself reflected in the myriad broken pieces of glass, revealing a somewhat fragmented image : my fringe has turned into frosted tips and my cheek into a glazed donut. I’M THIRSTY
... and while I try to metabolize this strange entrance, I spill into the gap between the bed and the wall, I sink into its pores, I become one with the confines of my wet thirst
1. Pointed gaze, static body composition
2. Trying to identify you with my two fingers,
glazed ceramic wearables, sizes variable
3. Read to filth by the audence,
temporary tramp stamp tattoo
4. Wouldn’t you want me to eat you?
2022
(performance duration: 25 min)
I wake up
Mouthful. Chomping on some words - leftovers from yesterday’s lunch. I spit little bones, which I collect in my pockets, and later I simmer their meaning into a calcium broth.
While I slurp it till the last drop, my body synthesizing these wild fluids, I begin to feel the ground extracting, sucking all that’s left to suck beneath my buttocks. It’s alive. Breathing.
I wake up
The pressing of the tissue bouillon is stronger than the pull of the warm duvet. Darkness embraces the room, I navigate through it by memory. To get to the bathroom, I turn on the light. Blinded, my eyes become slits, my vision a tunnel.
...
I wake up
...
... from the piercing smell of the sewage fumes brewing up the intestines of the city. The air is warm. Heavy. Penetrating. My bum is wet and my shoes covered in mud. I’M PISSED
the street is a cavity bouncing the echo of my teeth grinding.
I skid and slide on an ambiguous layer of filth that’s wrapping the pavement.
My traces cutting into this substance. The moon is staring at me. My body casting a deep sharp shadow.
I clap my hands together
Like a half dead moth, I pick myself up with two fingers and, while holding myself in my palm, I try to stretch back my trembling wings to then nail my feeble body to the wall with precision - each nail piercing each wing.
...
I wake up
...
... unusually well lubricated, as if someone had rubbed butter all over my body. Oils sinking into the epidermis, into the bones, into the bedsheets, into the mattrass ...
I reach for the glass of water on my bedside table but once I try to grab hold of it, it slides down my hand and shatters into pieces.
I gaze at the small puddle of water intermixed with glass, curly threads of hair and dust particles.
the water is gliding through the curves of the floor, guided by the sagging of my Dutch house - I look down and see myself reflected in the myriad broken pieces of glass, revealing a somewhat fragmented image : my fringe has turned into frosted tips and my cheek into a glazed donut. I’M THIRSTY
... and while I try to metabolize this strange entrance, I spill into the gap between the bed and the wall, I sink into its pores, I become one with the confines of my wet thirst
1. Pointed gaze, static body composition
2. Trying to identify you with my two fingers,
glazed ceramic wearables, sizes variable
3. Read to filth by the audence,
temporary tramp stamp tattoo
4. Wouldn’t you want me to eat you?