Letter in response to Oceane Bruel's solo exhibition L Like Molecule at BF15, Lyon
There you are, hanging on by a thread. You’re half of what you used to be. Like my shirt, brutally burnt in a silent act. Light. Smoke. Sting. Repeat. The floor reminds me of sticky sheets, and the mixing of sweat. Feverish, summery, sick sweat. And the bitterness of the lemons is pulsing on my tongue, yet I taste nothing. Apologies are simultaneously heavy and empty. Taking turns spinning in circles, like the circular dances words perform on screens in yet another thread. Virtual this time. I realise now how water signs evaporate before ever being tangible. How they evaporate when mixed with earth. Like a mirage. Or a shadow of a doubt.
J’ai gratté tout ce que je pouvais pour arriver à un agenda vide, malgré moi. Malgré soi. The empty chair affirms a presence I can’t bear, but need. Wrapped in formerly loved threads, again. And the cryptic messages I write to you, dear zero, are spelt out and float in puddles of glass that expand and contract on the floor. And the moontalk replaces the pillowtalk while I wonder if you were ever there at all.
Comme la poussière, ces fantômes que je n’arrive pas a dompter reviennent, à peine disparus.