antwerp BE 2014

antwerp BE

the car wash / may 2014



guest artists

piet defraeye


Piet Defraeye is a theatre scholar and director. He teaches in the Drama Department at the
University of Alberta, and does mainly comparative research in contemporary performance.
He has a particular interest in Austrian theatre, and has published, among other themes, on
contemporary German, Austrian and Romanian theatre. He has staged Peter Handke, Elfriede
Jelinek, and Arthur Schnitzler, and has toured the production of the Québécois play Bashir Lazhar
to Innsbruck.  He also maintains an active liaison with Universität Innsbruck.  Piet recently directed
Voice in the Closet at StageLab in Edmonton.




christine sollie


The field of Christine Sollie is a multidisciplinary approach of poetry, movement, performance
and art education.  She studies mainly the sensitive imagery of these domains. Christine is an
anthropologist by training, focussing on the body in its sensory capacities. She examines deeper
layers of bodily experiences, for instance cellular vibrations and their resonances, and uses them
as an inspiration for poetry and movement.  Louise and Christine met through their common interest
for the poetics in life and in art.  They encountered a common sensitivity that inspired them to design
courses, Touch Delicatessen and create 2 performances: Womb // Why objectifying my Being and
Fleur de Peau (under process).



luk van den dries


Luk Van den Dries studied Germanic Philology at the University of Brussels.  He started his academic
career in 1980 with a research fellowship at the University of Brussels.  Currently he is Professor of
Theatre Studies at the University of Antwerp (Belgium). He was editor of the theatre magazine Etcetera,
organiser of the Flemish-Dutch Theaterfestival and president of the Flemish Arts Council.  His most recent
publications include Performance, transformance, informance. New Concepts in Theatre (together with
Henk Oosterling, CFK, Rotterdam), Body Check (Rodopi, 2001), Omtrent de opvoering. Heiner Müller en
drie decennia theater in Vlaanderen (KANTL, 2001), Verspeelde werkelijkheid. Verkenningen van theatraliteit
(with Steven De Belder and Koen Tachelet, Van Halewyck, 2002), Tussen de dronkaerd en het kouwe kind.
150 jaar Nationael Tooneel, KNS, Het Toneelhuis, (with Toon Brouwers e.a., Ludion, 2003). Corpus Jan Fabre
(Imschoot, 2004), translated in seven languages.  He is the author of several books and articles investigating
the development of theatre in Flanders and the Netherlands.  Together with Jan Fabre he founded Aisthesis,
a research centre on the representation of the body in today’s theatre.  Works as a freelance dramaturg for Jan Fabre (Tannhäuser, Requiem für eine
Metamorphose).  Along with Louise Chardon he founded the production house AndWhatBesidesDeath and founded the CarWash Theater, a space
for creation in performance, theatre and dance in which Ay¨n – La Baignoire du diable (2008) and Sensorama (2009) were created and performed .


louise chardon
Louise Chardon has dedicated her life to dance and the study of the being in movement for over
30 years. She first developed herself as a dancer in main Ballet and Contemporary Companies
and worked with independent choreographers before engaging in her own creative process.  Since
about 10 years, she’s specialized in the deep sensitive abilities of the being and how its subconscious
expresses itself through movement.  She mainly applies her research to her performative oeuvre and
shares it through her pedagogy.  Louise and Christine met through their common interest for the poetics
in life and in art. They encountered a common sensitivity that inspired them to design courses, Touch
Delicatessen and create 2 performances: Womb // Why objectifying my Being and Fleur de Peau
(under process).





luk van den dries


Re-writing distance. Car Wash, Antwerp
may 2014
Klimop groeit uit de muur
En zoekt zich een weg
Naar binnen
Blad voor blad
In vouwen
Het gewicht opwaarts gevend
Het gewicht opwaarts gevend
Tot aan de rand
Van het dak
Een monumentale beweging
In kromme letters geschreven
Geworden wat ze zijn
Woorden woorden woorden
Maar niet lichaamloos
Juist hun gewicht
Hun zwaartekracht
Hun rekbaarheid
Hun aanraakbaarheid
Maakt hen tot wat ze zijn
Klimop groeit uit de muur
The sound of the rain gave the rhythm of our breathing, inhaling drops, exhaling sound,
stretching the inner waterfall as if you can manipulate gravity. What is the weight of word?
What’s is the smell of a word. What is the age of a word? The sound of the paper gave rhythm
to our movement, as if every wrinkle was a gesture, a reflection of the impenetrability of time
and space. Touch of skin. Pressure of words on organs. What happened to your liver darling?
I don’t know. It just needed some air, I guess? And why are you bleeding?
Well, the needles are too expensive nowadays. We have to buy a new word. Maybe when
we whisper all together it may become alive. Yes, I see; it’s lips are already moving! It’s already murmuring.
I hear the sound of a word. Words, words, words. Should we hide it? No, we will keep it, it’s a good protection.


louise chardon


day 1 – 26/05
Duality – making the un-homogeneous homogeneous … or not?
I encounter being out in mind or in body?
Learning to know yourself through performing
What are the tracts of our mind?
Where does a mind stop?
What makes a mind flow?
Feet? Do they rather fly or dive?
Duality btw being female being male…
Feeling free? what makes/gives freedom?
Changes of dimension, changes of vibrations…
When all comes to suspension and mystery …
Search for melodious equilibrium
Shifts into the under layers of what we do not voluntarily perceive.
Can we measure the depth and vastness of perception?
In ourself? Around? Beyond?
Play… is playing being childish?
Is playing a serious game?
How cruel or tender is the play?
Conscious or unconscious?
Centered and radiant …
The cartography of invisibility
How the body is being perceived
living alignment – Alive in your alignment
Aligned with yourself and with other elements coming in
Magnet – pulled in, pull myself out
Open the dimension to the all space not only to what is the action, to what is going on.
day 2 – 27/05
White, white, white, red, colors, no colors, depth of green, my green through the white
Checking into numbness and balancing
Disappearing like a blur in my own skin
Rippling white, rippling light and blowing into shade
Rape, not not yet matured, obsessed, not not yet settled
Show me my depth. Make me a skin out of petals for the bees to come and bite me
Blur in and around and in between like the skin of a snake rippling out of a lion stomach
Lines throughout a throat, hidden behind a layer of paper
Musicality of a line
Cracking sounds of a paper ear coming step by step in my memories
Lips touching lines, lines touching eyes and ears, lines of words, blue words… we had no blue words today…
Pressing the button of obsession
Alone and raped into obsessions
Lines of obsessions… can you follow the lines of your obsessions?
Tracking memories, , outward, inward.
Rewinding, rewinding, rewinding, white, white, white
day 4 – 29/05
Going for a walk like walking a dog… grey all is grey all greys are grey … cold… all is cold … becoming warmer as I walk…
transforming … receptacle of my ears growing in the street from the absorption and support of sounds… sounds as organic
food nourishing me as I step along the street. I dance on those sounds… they are my reality, they are my thoughts, they are
my melody. My walk is my dance. Trees are growing in sounds… bricks make hard sound when they fall…. dead wood is silent,
except when it is eaten by a tiny insect trying to make his path in life… existing in the sounds of this quest for space.
Growth is a matter of space. You can only grow in relation to space and limitations of space. I grow a tree in me. It is the transformation
of my errors. My errors are a cherished darkness that I sometimes feed with my thoughts, like the little insect is nourished by the dead wood.
A caterpillar in me. A tree or a caterpillar, how ever, they are the transformation of my errors.
Extra’s: The way back to my suspended memory. Dare to stretch time. I take steps I never took before. Melons are smiling my way.



christine sollie


Rewriting Distance – Writing, Christine Sollie, Spring 2014

monday may 26

I am writing in the light.
That’s also how Guy started.
His feet were the light.
One hand going up
and down the light.
Craving for darkness and lightness.
It felt heavy after a while.
Words came and went
just like motion did.
It was not mental; was it?
When I write this down, I feel I cannot grasp it…
It’s like a stream of consciousness
right down at the level of the feet,
connecting the earth with the sky.
And the heart
is a triangle
hairy hanging between feet and head.

Are you in balance?
Balance is a fragile thing, you know?
I could kick you down now, just like that…
Which makes you change your trustful flexibility for a stoned vigilance.

Lines in space are tempting.
A tempting tone of bodies desiring to be more
than lines in space.
To break them, bow them, reinvent.
Can we have a body?
Lifting hands
Lifting paper
Lifting men
You can’t see what’s going on underneath the earth.
You can only feel
wrinkles in disturbed paper.
As a mouth touches skin or an ice cream,
the tongue licks to swallow tastes.

tuesday may 27

Protective layers of skin cover
my body with sweet desires.
I feel so secure.
Layers start to breath independently
and inhale all the oxygen surrounding me.
Air is flexible.
You touch it,
it carries your touch.
You caress it
and it caresses you.
A soft voice glides onto vulnerable bodies moving.
You are so beautiful when delayed.
As if you are living in white cotton clouds.
meandering through space
All boundaries are blurred.
I cannot see your skin anymore.
As crystal tends to break light in many different colours,
you are broken by my sight,
fleeing to be captured
and finally submit to be operated.

wednesday may 28

-first writing after a walk in the city-

Lollipop lollipop lolli lolli lollipop
Heels are smashing on the earth behind you.
They seem to fast forward
and will soon walk over you.
A wink of an eye?
What’s in a wink of an eye?
Pak mij dan, als je kan
Pak mij dan, als je kan.
A ball smashing against the wall.
You are carrying your weight mostly on your left side,
which makes your upper body hang to the right side.
Are you a male or a female?
A white cloud is clung onto the skin of your skull.
A drizzle of little sprockets passes behind you.
Woa is de keark?
‘k zal ‘t wel veinden.

A velvet purple smell caresses your nostrils.
Leafs are resting on top of each other.
I take steps I never took before.

Some flowerpots are huge.
Why do they do that?
As tall as me and six times my width.
I will never get used to such proportions.

Melons are smiling my way.
A cut smile makes them more juicy.
If I sit long enough in front of this landscape,
it will make me play.
No play in a regulated way
but just hopping from one nerve to the other.

I take the road that you don’t.
I seem to be alone on that road.
Some doors don’t fit in the walls.
There is something about the colour that doesn’t match.

-after the practice-

There is a tree growing in your spine.
Growing, needing, stretching density.
I think it will grow out of your mouth,
you’re making space for it.
What will happen to my feet?
They’ll stay rooted.
Trees travel very slowly
as you grow
in spirals.
You are carrying you’re weight mostly on your left side
That makes your body turn to the right side.
You are stretching your arms left to right.
I follow your movement
but not the words that are clung onto them.
Do we need words?
How would a non-verbal world sound?
Would we be bumping into smells, as if it were objects,
not able to go through them?
Would we walk from one place to the other
using the streets that are built for that?
Would we pass through, above or underneath houses?
Or maybe through all the corridors that are connecting them?

A white cloud clings onto the skin of your skull.
And there is something in something
that is connecting without knowing.

Some doors of the houses are open.
Some don’t fit the walls surrounding them.
Like you try to fit in a space
that was not made for you.
But still you are doing very good.

friday may 30

There is something stuck in my neck.
It feels like a brick.
I think someone tried to build a house there.
Could you help me?
I feel the back of my skull is growing all over my face.

Do you think I can ever get rid of the skin on my skull?
I mean; it’s all over,
it’s annoying me.

meandering through.

You say you’re losing your skin
or at least you are trying to.

Did anyone tell you I don’t want to be part of your spine?
If I had your face in my hands
and even if I know it is fragile,
I would break it.
I just can’t help.

Where are you aiming at?
I cannot concentrate if you grow ivy from my stomach.
My heart is longing for more space.
Will you grow stable?



lin snelling


Rewriting Distance at the Carwash
day 1
(Immediately after the practice with a pen)
Curious about this pen,
it stopped writing on my skin
during the practice,
the line dissolving  into  invisible
pressure  on my
arm, initially it was dark and strident
and then, nothing,  the nib leaving only
a consistently invisible trace …
and yet,
now again,
it  decides to begin,
it is leaving a mark, as words, on paper.
Beginning with Guy’s feet in
in a square of light,
they were a tuning fork,
his body reading the space,
it reminded me of the
Robert Bringhurst quote
I found this morning:
it begins with the line,
“ the feet are the link between earth and the body”
I remember this poet’s voice,
how deep and booming it first sounded,
it was a loud sound shaping itself
into words so resonant …
heavy and light all at once,
“ If I help you I will be lighter”
this is true and she stood up;
even as I read the texture
on the paper
through my hand,
it was because of the lines
she wrote on the back of my head,
the cartography of invisibility
as light as I imagine the texture of cloud,
dynamic in its precise desire
to move through space,
like blood in the vein,
moving compression,
flow bringing momentum,
to colour and shape,
the floor is a gold mine
and it’s a theory of Pythagoras who
is from Antwerp, apparently!
Maybe this is new math,
numbers and logic for theories of texture,
and the way things touch back and
go through and through,
that’s what it is called.
the paper’s topography, it’s wrinkling, making sounds like rain,
like drizzle, at one point it sounded like a strange bird,
and eventually it fell upwards along the wall, resembling a tumbling up
of time and flow and water …
How far away these words are from
their original home,
they have been
rescued by an early morning conversation
about where we play as children,
At one point she was at the centre of the table wrapped in paper
spiralled into a position,
and definitely not a part of the Icarus story …
even though the men were so wonderfully balanced in the world of birds.
Whose story is it?
The door was a passing through place that
brought the wall to its now colour of red …
The woman sat on the paper and said “No I am not a bird.”
He asked, she asked …
“what is freedom?”
Freedom is your feet on the ground in the light,
day 2
pa … pau …. pause
the way sound and smell
touch skin
cover skin
words have odours, some linger
in the space, and now in my ear
the words sing,
and far away … beyond language
the beginnings of all words
have a small yearning
to build towards the light
without ever knowing why
the slow walking with reading
the crumbling
re-building everything from the underneath and inside,
words like roots
the news is on paper
the body is on paper
the paper is filled with
nothing but a word,
He said stitches
all this tapestry,
we are undoing the stories,
telling them from somewhere else,
as the rain continues to fall …
only the rain
only the rain
only the rain
the ordering of the zig zag
last letter of the alphabet
begins a word,
two words together
begin a dance
I am zig zag
I am pa …
I am an alphabet dissolving
I am a line
I am a news and paper
I am like this in front of paper, behind paper, wrapped in paper
pull the stories out of me
it’s an operation
an excavation
and it’s expansive and expensive.
an afterthought
the room now is filled with new forms of origami,
new shapes for words,
pressed into being
against skin and moving,
fallen petals,
the paper ear.
day 4
Writing after a walk in the neighbourhood
walk …
beginning from this small tunnel
( an old street as Guy discovers)
and out into the light …
the first thing I see is Piet,
he is so visibly alive where he is standing …
I turn left onto the street,
the rhythm of colour is what I see,
how all colour is so strong against
the grey/brown/beige of the architecture,
windows are sometimes with squares of colour …
matte of muted …
the air is fresh,  my skin is happy, it attracts
all of a sudden
I am steeped in green …
my head turns this time to the right
and sees a tree and vines almost hugging a house
how did it grow so close in? …
how from concrete did it/does it grow so tall …
when I come close to the house
and stand underneath the tree
and look up
it is as if I am under an umbrella,
protected …
it is amazing to feel how this tree hugs
into house …
nestles in close,
grows from
and with.
I keep walking
listening to the bells chiming
it is the day of Ascension,
walking deeper into the neighbourhood
so many bakeries
how wonderful
TE Huur
Te Koop
Rent, Sell
I don’t know which is which …
Approaching the busy street now,
there is a man sleeping
under a blanket,
close to the side of a building,
like the tree and the house,
nestling together for each other,
and then I turn left,
streams of traffic
each with tempos
streams of moving
directions and desire
walking through it all,
and perhaps
walking to discover
a pattern to
previous journeys
I have walked here  before,
how long ago,
I cannot say
it could have been very very long ago.
Ayurveda Marma chart in a window
catches my eye
so many points on the face and head,
returning to the tunnel,
turn right …
coming full circle.
after the practice,
the light has come to the
Sultan of Borherhout,
he is smiling, sweet and sly,
he is kind of hungry,
he is coming from a long
journey through a cave of paper
that has been marked
and scratched with
lines, letters, leaves,
all things tethered together
like a nest
“patience is the mother of creativity.”
the perfume of wood,
the smell of baked bread,
the something  inside something,
the space however small
recreates space however small,
and however  each
foot falls forward
in lines of curves,
this walking we do
brings a smell to the room,
odours of history,
a forest,
a woman drawing
a man on a chair
and one in the air,
tethered, tethering, tether,
such an odd word,
something like a stitch,
suspending …
moving through air
sky tethered to earth,
skull tethered to sacrum
gravity falls us,
it has a smell.
day 5
this is a tendril …  I am.
this is moving slowly, I do.
this is timing nothing,



guy cools
Rewriting Distance Carwash Antwerp May 2015
day 1
To start in the light and to wait for something to arrive: the tension between earth and sky; heavy and light. The male desire to fly or at least to trick oneself in a balancing act with the female body pushing the desire back into the earth, grounding it.
When Piet was balancing on my back, he called me ‘veertje’ and it triggered of instantly the love letters I received in my first year of university and in which I was addressed like that: ‘veertje’.
Words have weight and power but also need to be rescued sometimes from abuse. What does freedom mean? Is a bird free when it follows the currents of the air?
Our feet are listening to the earth which sometimes tickles and sometimes screams.
And Lin reads in the wrinkles of the paper the estuary of a river with men swimming in the background.
It was Crick who discovered DNA who said: ‘we were not digging for gold, but somewhere we stumbled on it’.
The paper spoke in different dialects, became a bird’s nest, being wrapped around your body by two men who wanted to lick you, seal you, which wasn’t so comfortable, so it unwrapped again. To me watching with my hands, it felt like a present.
And all through the practice, this gentle obsession with Pythagoras. Four is the number of the earth. Does it make our feet square?
Is freedom allowing to unfold what needs to unfold?
day 2
Moving the audience chair into the space to become the witness chair.
Listening to the rain always quiets us down, makes us listen more.
Although we are constantly looking for hidden and lost words, I don’t feel a huge need to speak a lot. I am enjoying taking everything in: all the fluidity, the zigzagging, the green.
And without summoning them, all the mythical animals appear out of the blue: the tortoise Jerome with the origin of calligraphy on its shield; the lions on top of the art gallery; a snake shedding her skin, not once but many times.
You asked, invited me to protect you and although I feel honoured by your request, I know from personal experience that a protective coat or shield might prevent you from staying porous and spongy; from shedding the dried skin of yesterday’s news. So the only thing we can offer you is to carefully and sensuously loosen the stitches so that you will become more expansive.
It might be more expensive than regular cosmetic surgery, but it is also much more profound, like a phoenix rising from its ashes; the rebirth of a word.
day 4
Walking the neighbourhood.
The first thing I notice when I leave the rehearsal space, is that the entrance is actually a street with cobblestones and pavements. So this must have been one of the many ‘steegjes’, dead alleys with a lot of small workmen’s housed, like the ones, my ancestors used to live in at the other side of the Turnhoutsebaan.
Walking the neighbourhood, I am amazed by its social diversity which you can easily read from how the houses are renovated and what people put into their windows or the signs they put up. A random selection:
  • A German shepherd dog in a window here you would normally expect a cat.
  • ‘Has someone seen Charlie?’
  • An inflatable batman.
  • A jazz orchestra of political incorrect Negro statues.
  • ‘Don’t ring the bell. Gerda sleeps. Nightshift.’
In De Langestraat, the Long Street, I have this memory of my puberty. I had two main fights to fight: with my grandmother about occasionally having dinner with only my mum and brother and another with my mother about buying my own clothes. In De Langestraat was this clothes stores, Superconfex, where she would always take me to buy the most awful trousers and winter jackets. Out of those two fights, I got at least my gourmand taste for good food and expensive clothes.
I also end up in the back alley of the real Reuzenpoort, the Giant’s Gate where there used to be a dance school that I attended during high school, not to learn ball room dancing but to meet girls. I have a strong memory of one of them: short brown hair, a nice skirt with a Scottish motive of squares. I loved to dance the tango with her, but I have forgotten her name.
After the practice.
How do stories interweave? Like branches growing out of the same tree, which is our body?
Different sides can have different colours. And different parts have different needs. Some want to be touched and embraced. Others are always hungry. Some look for comfort and shelter. Others want to grow. Some are organic and others artificial. But they all constantly change and transform. None is an empty page. They all leave traces and when you follow them you might end where the page had been torn before.
Louise: “Tracks to my suspended memory.”
day 5
The image that summarized the whole week: all of us curling up around Louise’s imaginary spinal colon which Lin had put together with the shredded paper, towards Piet’s ‘corona radiate’, his thousand petal lotus, with me in the wrong place so I had to move up to meet Christine again and practice my exit to leave her the floor to stretch time once more.



piet defraeye



Dancing is like mining the floor.

The floor becomes a goldmine. A warm gold mine, provided Louise has put on the floor heating. Though a cold goldmine is OK too.- and sometimes even better because too much heat can be dangerous for the heart – and then it cannot speak any longer through the eyes. They are the holes in the head. They are silent, like a drawing, on thick paper. Eyes are always silent. Paper is almost never silent. It speaks a language, it speaks a texture. Some say it has no grammar, but I don’t believe that. Of all things, paper, for sure, has the strongest and densest grammar. The trick is to find its conjunctives.

Paper is also like a beach. It holds and shows footprints, and all kinds of impressions. It tracks its own past. until the sea wipes away its history. Like water. Water and paper is a dangerous, but potent mixture. You need both, but they also make each other implode. The paper then is useless, and the water needs to heal itself. Like the earth.

How much paper can the earth yield?



Yearning for embrace.

Separated. Sutured. Cut. No spleen. No toes.

Cut away.



Words are the only threads that hold things together. The present falling over its own feet. Words can never catch up with the present. Words only serve a purpose for the past.

To make sense of it. Sense of no-sense.


Words don’t have sense. We make them make sense. Though they are prettier when they make no sense.

Words are our roots. But most of the time our roots are invisible.

Perhaps, if we listen carefully, and silently, we can hear our roots.

Yearning. Piercing through the wall.

Yearning towards light.

In time?


A silk scarf.

Like an autumn leaf

On a journey through the wind

Through the air.

With the sky as its scaffolding.

Like a dance.

The labyrinth of streets.

À la recherche des bruits perdus.

                                                                                                    Op zoek naar oude geluiden.

                                                                                                              Een kast die opengaat.

                                                                                                           Het knarsen van papier.

Papersound. The church bells on Sunday.

Such a re-assuring sound.

The UN should classify it among endangered species.

They remind of yesterday. And yesterday has never been a verb. While it should be, because you have to work it. Work at it. Work through it. Work with it. Work against it.

To yesterday. He has yesterdayed. We should be yesterdaying in a week’s time.

We gaan nog even gisteren.


A closed frituur on a Thursday morning, which is really a Sunday morning. No surprise. I wonder if it opens any other day? The church is all locked up too. It’s odd. It is a holy day – Ascension – and the church is closed. Most of the many bakeries are open today: a busy day. The church is not busy. The 5 doors – on either side – are firmly locked. Big church.

A poster in a window. For a Benefiet Feest. “If you build a house in heaven, you will live eternally.” But only sisters and daughters are allowed. Entrance is 10 Euros. The mosque is to be built in Temse. There’s a drawing in the poster – all in blue and white. Could be the blue mosque in Istanbul, which is now being built in Temse. A poster in a window in Borgerhout. The house next door is for sale. It says: Opbrengsteigendom. It’s meant to be an investment for the future. Like the 10 euros for the benefit party for the mosque construction. Guaranteed yield?

A woman walks in front of me with a red plastic bag – the bag is empty, and, as she walks, it catches air and dangles on her side – like a reversed balloon. It’s quite beautiful. She enters the bakery on the right and I wonder how much weight she will add to the bag. Will it ever dangle the same way, with the same fervor and freedom as I saw it doing just now….?

A person stands on the corner  – just at the place where a woman covered in black – only her eyes are visible – enters an SUV on the passenger side, with a white box – most likely a big cake, which she bought at the bakery.

The person at the corner is short. The top of her head comes barely to my nipples. Black curly hair. I’m not sure if it’s a man or a woman. He/she looks at me – and I’m not sure if it’s in a friendly way. Will he/she say something when I pass by and cross the intersection?

A man crosses the square in front of the closed church. I’m checking once more if ALL the church doors are locked. How can this be on the day that Jesus ascended into heaven? The man has wavy gestures. Did he just toss away a cigarette or was that a limpy feminine gesture? He’s red headed – I think he’s headed for the church –and I nod as we cross paths. He smiles. Did anybody see us smile?

10 euros for a place in heaven. Good investment!


Like a tendril. Always looking. Looking for Light. Looking for support. Where is the water. Up or down? Light. Licht.

There is light; it is light.


                                                                                                              Er is licht. Het is licht.

                                                                                                                     Das Licht is leicht.

A red pillow. Always either in the centre or off centre. Too heavy really. But never heavy enough. Like the holes in Louise’s sweater.

Rolling with a missing person is the hardest thing. The empty place. The chair’s embrace that is waiting. Basil playing in the distance, hearing Luc’s distinct laugh. Come in and enter.