zo 28.05 - zo 02.07.2017
DOLORES BOUCKAERT : UND ES WAR IHR MUND (birth and death of the show)
Open Thursday - Saturday : 2 pm - 6 pm
Sunday 11 am - 2 pm
The sickness of being (home)
“I ate myself and I want to die”, she said. I remember how and when she spoke those unusual words. Few years back I woke up my parasitic twin from her sleep and I looked her in the eyes, her ominous, dark and dead eyes, right there, you see, two, deep poisonous wells that dug holes right through her skull. She is the illness. Her cold skin felt rough like an old dog yet somehow she always managed to seduce me. I can't part from her, not yet, not today at least, I need to hold on to her. It has always been this way between us. Heavy and charged, moving slow if moving at all.
I want to stay home with you as long as you don't speak to me. Right now, any dialogue is theater, total artificial and manipulative crap. My body and soul are tired of acting, pretending and obeying. My subdued rage is perverse and it's exhausting me. I need energy to unleash it, to break out of it, to break you. I am you and I am a reflection. Sit quietly. Don't move, I need to breathe.
Meanwhile: The dog runs around all the time, jumps up and down like a careless child and turns into a horse and then back into a dog totally the weirdest kind of magic trick that, even more weirdly, no one here pays attention to no more. That dog is always here. He is a painter, filthy and he reeks of death, always been homeless. I will probably go astray with him. Bravely join the pack of abandoned dogs, wild outsiders, exiled wrongdoers, beasts that go everywhere uninvited and unashamed. My heart is astray anyway, always been on a freeway going and going and going to god knows where. Who knew that home's the only place I was looking for all this time. Somewhere out there, I thought. The world, out there. It makes me sick. What else that afternoon?
The sun came out with hesitation. The family record player spins grainy tunes of Delta blues while mom paints the unpaintable with the heaviest bricks tied to her hands, wishing they were goddess-like feathers instead, capable of effortlessly translating her tormented thoughts onto the canvas. Art is theater. I observe and I mimic it and when I do I receive applause and it sounds like unsatisfactory rolls of thunder. I want more of it. I was naked as a child but now my dress is red. Once, I was your cute little hairless pet. I remember my youngest and most fragile skin carried high above your heads, like a circus trophy to be seen by all black-hearted clowns, jokers and magicians and this parade goes on and on, and then, the loudest, most brutal, final shotgun bangggggg. Reality kills the spirit, it knocks it right out. Your black teeth blast out your prison-like head. All for the sake of this. The invisible, unreachable and always pending masterpiece is identified as the great leader of the cult called “Art”. Ghosts. Total decadence. Pitiful and immature. I mimic and I become. I convert. I am one of the admirers and participants, eventhough I don't want it, I think I am a reflection of you. But I look the other way, and
The air turns cold. The door opens and people enter the room and the room is empty; they could have seen that through the window, makes me wonder, should I open it even further? Am I having a private or a public day? I can't remember. All my stuff is gone so what do you want, it's kinda unsettling but every once in a while I have to get rid of my stuff in order to start fresh. I shake off my sick skin while blood flows in and out of me. Everyone has a routine and this is mine. I'm new all the time, fueled, yet I'm not a deity. Like you, I'm subjected to all common human fragility, temporality, frustration, boredom, value and so on. Do you also measure in millimeters because the distance between life and death is exactly one millimeter? Do you also build entire worlds in that twilight zone of a micro-space? This railroad space is my stage and the current performance is life, my life, and your life through my life. That happens when we connect, when that door opens and you invade this space. Not far from here someone is speaking softly into my ear, about memories good and bad, death listens along, sometimes three minutes sometimes three hours we don't keep track. And I carry everything like a brave and strong vessel. Always in service of. “Take me with you”, we sing quietly.
I showed you the end and we already forgot the beginning. A brief moment of harmonious peace occured at noon when there are no shadows when the sun is highest. My father's solar flared eyes. My heart rests. I sit here now and I wait. (…) All of this is my art. All of this, is.
Text by Jan Van Woensel