• Ways In and Ways Out 10 roof windows. 19 air vents. 100 water sprinklers. 2 exits/entrances. 7 stores. 4 with red color palette in their logos. 3 with green. one screen playing ads. approximately 15 people passing per minute. 3 of them pushing strollers. in 1 of them there is a dog. 4 carry larger shopping bags. 1 holds a white cane. 1 carries a walking stick. average age: 30. 1 bench. 5 seated. 1 staircase. 1 door. 2 windows. 1 of them locked. 1 hallway. 2 high chairs. 1 couch. 1 glass table. 1 oven with metal handle. 2 bottles. 1 empty. 2 small glasses. 2 kitchen corners. my bag on the counter. 3 locks on the door. For Ways In and Ways Out I combined an exercise on loitering, observing, and list making in public space (xpub field work), with a list describing a situation left open to interpretation taking place within the private sphere. The excellent Jon H. Miller let me use his music, and the result speaks for itself.
  • Since my work has appeared in a few exhibitions over the years, I thought I'd gather them all here: Rotterdam 2024 (Interactive installation, xpub collective, Varia) Rotterdam 2023 (Publishing, xpub collective, Worm) Rotterdam 2023 (Publishing, xpub collective, ZineCamp, Worm) Leiden 2020 (Poetry, Collective, BplusC) Leiden 2019 (Poetry, Collective, BplusC) Leiden 2018 (Poetry, showcasing poetry issues, collective, BplusC) Athens 2012 (Photo manipulation, Individual, Mirror Mirror) I hope there will be many more to come!
  • "Desperation" was a thought inspired by the COVID-19 times, but it applies to every prolonged instance of trauma, that eventually becomes unconscious, and it takes time, distance and healing to realize its true dimensions. As a piece, it incorporates elements from the past, such as a mysterious old recording I've been curious about for years and recently retrieved from an old mini-cassette recorder, and a footage of a place very deeply connected to childhood memories. It's more of a poetized thought than an actual poem, and although it's closer to prose I decided to follow the voice rhythm to create the written lines rather than doing it the other way round. Desperation Looking back there was a lot of desperation but we couldn't feel it. It was like a filter all over reality. A reality that you get used to like every other reality. There was desperation. It had a color. It was mostly grey but not just grey a little bit of dark blue, also. Sadness, I guess. There was, but we couldn't see it. But now that the filter that film that was covering the horizon and the sky and the reflection of the light now that this is gone yeah, in hindsight there was a lot of desperation.
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  • With "Care" I feel that I go back to the roots of my love for art. Music was in the beginning of it all and now it's time to reconnect with it in a manner that feels complete. "Care" was a poem in the making that I had forgotten about for a little while and when I found it again I saw that it was more of a micro-song. It could have taken many forms, and I can definitely hear me screaming the lyrics in a different version, but this is how it crystallized (at least for now). The visuals were also brewing for a while in the background, with ideas revolving around time-lapses and chalkboards. Care I don't want you to care for me care is for the hospice of emotions I want your voice to burn like love turn away from the care-ful cold where feelings go to die.
  • Metaphors never cease to amaze me. They are often better and conciser at getting the meaning of the most abstract notions across than a simple description of a situation. As flexible molds, they shape and embody our individual thoughts helping us make sense of our experiences in a collective manner. In this piece different metaphors come together to express a sense of womanhood compiled by different experiential states.
    metaphors MenI had three pens lying around.None of them really worked.EmptinessShe started counting her ribs. There, in the middle of the forest. When she came back from her walk, she called immediately her doctor: “I need to have an X-ray asap; there’s something wrong with my insides.”MotherShe was picking the hairs from the floor, one by one, or in tufts, if they were clustered. With a sense of urgency. The same sense of urgency she had when the phone rang. Wired landline. Darting from the kitchen, running down the marble corridor, sometimes deciding within seconds at the kitchen door which phone to run for, the one in the living room (closer) or the one in the bedroom (more private). Back to hair picking. She would often go in absurd bowed circles, like a weird alien dancer. She would let you talk and in the middle of a sentence she would fix her eyes on a corner and, already bowing, she would go there straight to pick up the hair. What does depend upon hair? I often wondered. Not anymore. VoltaireI will not spend another night with you in my life, but we can still text if you like. You can read more about the poetry issues project here.

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