Rêverie
Jurgen Bey & Rianne Makkink, Tony Cragg – Anton Defant
Chris Kabel, Lucas Maassen & Margriet Craens
Tejo Remy & Rene Veenhuizen, Sho Ota, Soft Baroque
Nicolas Verschaeve
June 21th
︎︎︎ july 26th, 2025
Étant donnés :
The fountain
The air
The ground
The view
The space
The copse
The groto
There is no doubt that this landscape is ancient. The waterfall, the aedicula overlooking it, the sparse vegetation and the colour of the riprap all prove it. The ground is covered with a semblance of pebbles, identical in every way but for their hardness. The river from which they come is not local. The sheer joy of taking a step on the ground, as if you were a million miles away. Almost at the other end of the world. Walking and making noises that you do not understand because of the language barrier. Stones have their own language, after all. It is often incomprehensible, especially when they come from the other side of the world.
From this perspective, it is tempting to find your bearings. But what is the point? The journey is only worthwhile because of the unknown it confronts us with. So, we are going to let ourselves go without putting ourselves in danger. Through a window that could be described as flimsy, we catch a glimpse of a few people gathered, preparing for what promises to be a tense interaction. There are a few remaining chairs, mainly backrests, which are evidence of a heated and perhaps violent exchange. Another chair has cuts as if it had been slashed through. Tension reigns. We do not know the real reasons. They are serious, no doubt about it. But we will not find out. We are not invited. We are invisible visitors and witnesses for the future. On the white rock, where offerings are made, there are a few flowers and some fruit. It is a classic. We will not linger too long. A little further on is a tomb, but not just any tomb. An upright stone surrounded by a black granite frame. It must be someone important, even if the place seems abandoned. And this text: What remains of what we thought but did not say? We move on quickly because we must. A tree stump. Or what is left of one. It is also white from the challenging work of removing its outer surface. Unless it is the other way around. Then some tubing. Transparent. An organ? Chemical instruments for a secret experiment? Nothing like that — more like vases, given the remains of dried flowers inside them. And then came the sounds. The sound of one or more bells in the distance. The call to arms. Smoke. Perhaps signals, too. Just a few more gates and we will be there. As you cross the Garden, of Forking Paths, there is a succession of views. We could spend a long time describing them, but we must act quickly before something unexpected happens, as time is running out. The weather is fine now, and hopefully it will stay like this. A breeze is blowing through the open windows. The garden is divided into several sections. Interspersed. Patchy and incomplete. In summary, it is unfinished and destined to remain so. Like all gardens. The party has only just begun. We are on board.
Until the End of the World. Bis ans Ende der Welt.
Thanks (in no particular order), Louise-Joséphine Sarazin de Belmont, Solveig Dommartin, Marcel Duchamp, Jorge Luis Borges, Wim Wenders, Richard Baquié, Antoine Watteau, etc.
