Turning space - Text for sound installation - Clarisse - January 2016 - Performance Studio - Brighton

This is the story of a space and I’m walking inside, or rather I move because I don’t know exactly what form I take or about the place elsewhere.

I'm on a beach in the north of Lisbon it's hot and the sea is cold without touching it to say it. Under my feet, there are pebbles which are hurting me. The warmth is becoming unbearable but I still go forward.

It's a paneled room, there is a quite ugly red carpeting on the ground. It smells the old, it smells death. The eyes sting.

Pisa, large areas of well-maintained grass, I cross the crowd. There are clouds and humidity in the air. It sticks to the surface of the skin. There are street peddlers and then the cops arrive and everyone disperses.

We are naked in the large white walls room. There is no sound. We look at each other and he stumbles on one of the objects put on the floor. He raises again.

Helsinki, less than eleven degrees. Big coats and thick sweaters. I have never set foot there. The floor is tiled in gray stone. There are mosaics on the walls. Rather, it is beige, but rather white. There is a frozen sand dune. And palm trees bending under the storm. There is a man who wears a large blue gandoura that protects from the sun. He carries a leather bag and walks slowly behind the dune.

The living room is narrow, she is on the armchair, he is on the chaise longue, she looks at the man, gets up, crosses the soft carpet diagonally, with her polished feet, and unplugs the TV.

It’s July, there is a dog on the opposite pavement and the seller is staring it from inside his store. The window is dirty then it prevents him from seeing properly. He tries to wipe the pane but the dirt is outside. He remembers his little dog disappeared and cries.

I get up out of bed and walk the two meters of floor that separate me from the door. I crossed the entire space.

Hanoi, she crosses the red tiled temple. She turns to face the people here, she kisses the man in a shy smile.

Oppressive buildings. There are four streets to cross and then we will have to turn to the right, where the bar RedRoom is at the corner. Then we should continue, it’s better to stay on the right pavement because the opposite one is much narrower.

He is in the entrance of the police station, it’s ten and twenty-five he looks at the end of the corridor, the metal bars. He thinks that this thickness of one point five centimeters separates the free world and the world under surveillance. He goes out in the street and sees the camera overlooking the road.

"Where is the spices section please?" She finishes storing the corn tin next to the one of beans. It’s tidy, well-ordered, she's happy. "The penultimate starting from the bottom."

The city center includes eight streets that intersects in a star schema. In the center, the Poseidon’s statue.

We enter the bathroom, it’s a lockers alignment over benches. Showers are aligned and I think that from above it must from a red criss cross pattern. It's like at the pool, the same rough ground, the smell of chlorine missing. We dare not touch the walls with our undressed body.

It's strange these city desires. As we travel, as we hunt among grids drawings, as we hang around the mazes.

They are three to living in an eighty square meters. If we do the math, founded on a basis of minimum daily regular displacement, they can cross each other on average about seventeen times each and six times all three on them in the same place. Most of these meetings are happening in the kitchen.

He runs in Tehran as if he were late for any appointment. He only takes touristic streets, as if he never had set foot. He crosses the road without looking and when he finds a crosswalk, he places his feet between the white stripes. He laughs, he laughs loudly, then stops and turns back into serious.

Brighton, curtains are black and it is probably raining. I had to cross France by the West flying over from the South to the North, crossing the channel, take the train from Gatwick to the station and climb Hanover Hill down several times to do my shopping and go to the school to arrive here. This morning, I prepared the room of the studio and hang the plastic film, I launched the videos. I got the plastic sheet off and switched off the videos. I started reading This is the story of a space and I’m walking inside, or rather I move because I don’t know exactly what form I take or about the place elsewhere.