THE THEATRE OF TURBULENCES

an open-ended transfer of rituals


__________

TYPE : Writing, painting & collage
PUBLICATION : A contribution to the Issue 16 - COMFORT-  of Paperspace Magazine
DATE : 2021
LOCATION : UK


“Like a chorus, I hear “I’m waiting for it to be over, for things to be like before” : Yet before is always already dead as soon as we name it before, so :
What will last ? What is new ? What is left ?”

__________
February 2021, almost one year into the pandemic, I’m leaving London with my car, alone, driving back where I belong, somewhere in the French Alps.
A truck with my moving boxes is following. Borders are closed and I cannot travel unless I have a good reason, moving back is one of them.
I’m nervous as I arrive at the border control, equipped with an odd folder including : my passport, an expensive negative PCR test, some papers of the French embassy declaring I can go back, an attestation of my mother saying I’m living at her place, a letter from the mover confirming he is moving all my stuff.
I’m navigating in between Brexit and the Covid pandemic, and after crossing the border, a deserted zone, I feel drained.
In the living room there is this couch, a big cozy blue couch, a couch with four huge pillows, a bed unfolding from the couch at night, a couch a big couch a couch that becomes the territory of hours of everything and nothingness.
I’m back since a bit {I have no idea how long - time flies strangely in these times, right?} and here it is, we enter lockdown {again} : we are allowed to go in a radius of ten km from our home and the curfew continues, starting at 7 pm.
This is it, fourth lockdown for me, in this home that is not mine, yet momentarily becoming my shelter. During the day I’m alone in this apartment and from this seclusion, yet another one, I decide to start an ongoing creative endeavour : an exploration under the form of a multi-disciplinary performative production, a lockdown’s archive.
The only rule is : I must create everyday no matter what, and I must publish the day’s production everyday.
From there, this space becomes like this couch, a territory of everything and nothingness, a temporal no man’s land, a space in between {in between what?}, a stretch, a shifting dimension between {enjoyable yet stiff} solitude, physical and emotional cramps, the privilege of being immersed in the comfort of one’s home merging with the freedom of creating.

The conversation with one self goes as follow :

To bear uncertainty and traces of chaos I caress my own echo :
It remains what is now, I try not to drown in what was before, I attempt to not flood in what will be, or could be.

This apartment is my shelter, a safe zone protecting me from the violences of the agora :
Yet now protecting me from this invisible bandit - the virus :
The biosocial event that is a disease shifts the space of individual and collective experience/s.

This room where I sleep eat work dance read wait zoom {list to be completed with whatever is happening} :
Private and public merging into one territory of constraint :
My garments translating this disorder, in between comfortable tracksuits and pretty jumpers, I do not wear my shoes anymore.

The ambiguity of this experience :
This area, in time and space, of protection and safety, yet of restriction :
This tension drives me mad, this really is the theatre of turbulences, the arena of arduous dissonances.

Like a chorus, I hear “I’m waiting for it to be over, for things to be like before” : Yet before is always already dead as soon as we name it before, so :
What will last ? What is new ? What is left ?

Like a melody, I hear again “these are not real times” : Yet what is a real time? :
I do believe there is just time itself, as much as space.

Seating on the couch, I’m thinking “I can sense a slow shift” :
The apartment is changing with me, while my actions and immaterial consciousness is changing this space itself :
My occupation is constantly re-shaping this territory, an open-ended transfer of rituals co-emerging within themselves :

New reality new rituals
New rituals new reality
Is space, after all, only rituals ?

I can see on this couch a girl sleeping turning the back to the room :
Becoming a shelter to herself, in this space of everything and nothingness :
Overlaying this raw crack, I can see the girl painting this scene in the silent of a shelter curling itself up in lockdown.









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