Currently reading : londerzeel
9 June 2009
Author : maxime-buechi
Is a new collaborative project by Kris Van Assche, director of Dior Homme and creator of his eponymous fashion house, and Barbara Polla, the director of the Genevan art gallery Analix Forever.
For the pilot issue, Kris & Barbara nvited me to write a short text on the subject of someone crossing a desert. Very honoured I am.
(Wouldn’t it have been funny to do it on someone crossing a dessert, instead? Just Kidding.)
Londerzeel is available in selected bookstores.
My nights are grey with yellow speckles. Sometimes blinded by bright lights””then they become black.
If I took my sweatshirt off, I would feel the cold, so I keep it on and let the clumsy seam of the hood wear my skin out.
No eyes are left to interrogate my condition. I spill like an icicle in a closed mouth where only seldom breezes through the content of an inhalation.
I walk North-wise.
Music To Drive By. How many hearings does it take me before I can start humming every next song before it starts? In what year did I understand the last word I needed so I could finally recite Jack Mode from beginning to end?
The sensation I feel in my right foot is different to that in my left.
The music stops, but I do not. The earth is scrolling under my feet””things are coming to me.
The warm breeze, like a bath at body-temperature. I cross the road.
St Guy’s Hospital. Crawling out the windows is the cold gleam of neon tubes, similar to dumb jelly. It soaks the streets. Square volumes of emptiness, held together by stone and metal. A bouquet at a window arises in me the same flow of thought as does the laundry hanging from balconies in Italian villages, as I pass by in a fast train.
Is it the collisions between their leaves that make the trees murmur?
Empty halls on ground floors violently lit by halogen lights on tripods. Rectangles of paper””dim grey””irregularly displayed, cover the floor. Pillars cast prisms of obscurity. I want to sit on that green plastic case, just like the mason did, this morning.
Quarks are said to have a flavour. Do all things have flavour?
In the orange light of lampposts, advertising posters appear as printed only in black and white.
I pass 2.25 in coins from my front left pocket to my rear left pocket. I like rear pockets better. Amongst the P’s there is a green rubber band that I am certain I didn’t deliberately pocket.
The large metal structure reflects a dull light. Just like 2 other nights already. I regret letting myself drift to this, I was not ready, I speed away. 123 AM, like so many other times.
Earlier I asked Google Maps how to get to Compton. “Next crossing, take a right”.
I walk bent forward slightly, because of the backpack. It is not very elegant: I straighten myself up.
Within me there is no before, no after, everything coincides. There is no distinction between the rugged and new and the old and polished. Together they dance, restlessly, I weave them with sequins. In speechless gardens, backyards, unfurnished halls, desert benches, I leave pieces of my work, occasionally, unfinished. They are at one’s disposal.
Step number 24’005, I do not sense my feet anymore.
A fox looks at me. I forgive his intrusion, neither does he know where he’s going. Is there one thing I could do that would make sense to him? I apologize in the name of my whole species. I reminisce over a story called “La Reconquête” (The Reconquest). He resumes his stroll, preceding me. I cross the road””again.