Lay down on layers of earth, layers of dust, layers of sand, layers of peat, layers of roots, layers of waste, layers of clay, layers of water, layers of gas, layers of oil, layers of stone, layers of bone, layers of bodies, layers of evidence, layers of plates, tectonic plates, layers of ash, layers of magma, layers of heat, moving layers, layers of ash, layers of snow, layers of ice, layers of guilt, layers of secrets, layers of darkness, layers of death, layers of history, layers of footprints, layers of skin, layers of textile, layers of thread, layers of traces, layers of time, layers of shadow, layers of ghosts, layers of past.
3 2 1 zero and beyond. Time is irrelevant! 1 billion years ago I emerged from darkness. Wet skin, damp skin and then dry from the sun. Two legs I walked the earth, the sea was no longer my home. What kind of home sickness do I feel from a home I can never return to? A child is still born out of water. The hissing sound, ”ssssssh”, calms us because it reminds us of the sound we hear when we are floating on our mothers water. Mother earths belly is our deep seas. In my deep unconscious I can feel her. Deep, dark, moist, wet, no light. Is it a longing? I don’t think so. More like an emergence, a source of thought. Consciousness, I don’t know. Never to forget. Remember. Remember when you were floating. Light glimmers. I have never been very deep in the waters. Or have I? My ancestors so far back that they were fish. Fish ancestors. Slippery, slimy living in the slam and mud. No hands, no feet. What were you thinking, getting out of there?
3 2 1 zero and beyond, (2016) Lokaal 1b, Amsterdam
To dare to listen. Listen dear. Inner ear. Is it words we are talking about? Words, worlds. In another language, where ”to name” (something) also means ”to shatter” (something). Shatter to pieces or shatter the unspeakable! You know, I think. Shatter to pieces, destroying cultures. Pieces like sawdust, floating in the sea, taken by the wind. Like seeds they will sprout somewhere else. If you die hard enough you will become alive again. Or? Becoming dark. Seeds die and become something from memory. Memory seeds. Seeds of memory named and shattered, spread out to sprout again somewhere else. To listen to the wind, whatever, cliché. What happens if we shatter the world? Big bang, dust glimmering because they are stars. Big ball of sawdust, dust-ball, really big cloud of dust. Just, to do it all over again. Blessed be the west, destroying cultures and making it alive again. The way we treat nature = the way we treat culture? I don’t know. I’m just a dreamer. No, not romantic enough to be a dreamer. The dream of the earth. To dare to listen. I dare me to listen. Me dare you to listen. Listen to what? Are we talking, ooops! Are we listening to sounds? Stop talking.
I don’t make anything new. Everything I do have already been done. Maybe even for a 100 years. Maybe even for 1000 years. Maybe even for 10.000 years. Maybe even for 100.000 years. I sure hope so. If what I do have been already done for 100.000 years I know I am on the right track. What I do comes through my hands. What I do comes through my mouth. I speak and make. Through my arm I fit into the world. Through my mouth I communicate with the world. I speak though my hands and make through my mouth. My mouth make much moist too. My hand is usually dry. What does it mean to make something that already has been done? Actually, it depends how you define it, New. I am not interested in any definition. My mind is much wider when I see my gestures as in a line of gestures. Inheritance, shared imagination perhaps. I mean, how else would it be possible. I re-do, re-imagine, re-think, re-enchant, re-discover, re-fit, re-new. Continue. Continue. Continue. Continue.
Transparency. Shatter the surface! Splash the surface of the water too see what lies beyond. Darkness, wetness, not afraid. Maybe. Need it. Mould, earth, deep waters. Lying there floating, can neither go up or down. Floating in the North Sea, horizon only sea and sky. Water and air meeting on your spine. She sees the sea. Last sentence, strange origin. Depth, deeper, very deep, dark. Turn off the lights. Then you can see what is hidden from sight. Too see what is really hidden from sight. What a strange thing to say, because it is always there. Life is born out of darkness. Like the seeds. Am I dark inside? Small cells glowing, gleaming, so the others can find the way. Glowing veins. Light from inside to outside.
Because of the many fossils we know that the dragonfly have barely changed for almost 350 million years. This unchanged creature represents something mysterious and unknown form a time I cannot grasp. The dragonfly’s short life-span as flying about a summer season seem to not matter within the confines of it’s timelessness.
Landscape as foreign. Landscape as home. Landscape as ground. Landscape as where you are from.
“Migration” (2016), indian ink and paint, ca. 175m² including sidewalls, height 12 meters.
What is very liberating with thinking about metamorphosis, is that it is nothing new. Creativity in relation to change is claustrophobically associated with the new. I don’t understand what this new is supposed to be. Something pops out of the Black hole? But how can I think something that is not already here? So therefore, I think everything. The potential for metamorphosis is right in front of our eyes. The question is then not how far you can see, but how close.
The folded and unfolded work. Unveiling the words and story.
The word window, carries the meaning “an eye to the wind”. Wind-eye or vindauga in origin. A photo and image is like a window, to look out, but to stay separated and protected from the wind. For the being of folds, the wind is inseparable. The textile folds. It is very very windy. The folds of the earth would be it’s sand-dunes perhaps. the folds of water it’s waves. A folded textile work. Thoughts ready to travel or be unfolded. Or perhaps stay folded from sight.
Making the words and images inseparable from it’s form. The thoughts being a thread stitched with a needle into the textile. At the moment the form was given to them, the images and words, thoughts and notes, they grounded and became. A line from a text became a pattern, a color, an image, a shape, an open book, a tale. The works have a life on their own. To release a thought, believe and matter.
Launch, to set in motion an activity, thought and product. An art-practice as launch is to send into orbit. The orbit then, can be thought of as a sphere of activity, interest and believe.
The traveler, taking with him, his thoughts, believe and matter. The rst traveler on the silk road, with little landscapes of his homeland embroidered on the back of his cape. Perhaps so he would not loose ground when he entered new spheres with his departure.