(Tues. 31. 03. 2026)
Approaching Antwerp.
untitled, photograph, 2026
(Tues. 24. 03. 2026)
The sun is out here knocking at your windows from early morning. You are out, too, with your bike. To Mount View through The Canal Walk where the bare trees and old-style lamps are casting shadows. Underneath a bridge, your tires momentarily brake on the miraculous patterns of 8.
Along your side, those trunks are deeply imprinted, making elongated gigantic tracks on the road, and trees on your right side are enticed into spider webs on the brilliant green.
A silhouette pedals leisurely ahead of you. Out of the blue, another pushes in, turning left just before you, joining us now as a trio. Then, with whirring sounds, the new silhouette fades softly from the stage. Instead, a stand-still silhouette appears on you left, only there is a slight movement on the top of a little square pattern. A midday sun and shadows.
untitled, photograph, 2026
(Tues. 17. 03. 2026)
Push me up to the top of the mountain,
Then the wind will blow me down the hill.
Lift me up to the top on the floating water,
Then the wind will wave me around.
untitled, photograph, 2026
(Tues. 10. 03. 2026)
On Kawara calls his date paintings ‘Today’ (series 1966-2013). You had known the work before but it was the first time you had noticed the actual title, today, when you saw the exhibition Conceptual Art and Christine Kozlov at Raven Row.
This makes you think about your ‘today’ which deals with a much less specific time than his ‘Today’. And your ‘today’ is to be many tomorrows and yesterdays.
Today is being sharing by all contemporaries, and so On Kawara doesn’t share this today any longer with us. Yet, he shared, and shares his ‘Today’ with your ‘today’, today.
(Tues. 03. 03. 2026)
At International Arrivals. You stood there wondering.
There was a long unknown number hovering on your phone.
Days later, on your way back from Departures, you saw the same woman, sitting on the floor right in front of the station lift, still needing £91.
untitled, water colour on paper, 2023
(Tues. 24. 02. 2026)
untitled, ink on paper, 2025
(Tues. 17. 02. 2026)
A new sun.
And you paint a shadow.
untitled, photograph, 2025
(Tues. 10. 02. 2026)
The bus stop screen says ‘3min’. How long is that for? It’s windy, cold and wet and you feel hungry with a trolley-full of shopping. You start scanning the items. They are all packed in plastic under the category of ‘Basic Needs’, hung and displayed at the entryway of the shop. You haven’t seen such a tiny bottle opener before. Some bright yellow rubber bands, that resemble the pom-pom mimosa flowers that you have just seen next door. And pink and purple hair bands, a black comb, black hair pins, white chalks, many plasters, playing cards, party candles, super glues and so on, about a few dozen of them. In the furthest corner among them, next to some blue cans of beer, you see such diminutive red scissors. What are they for? Are they for fingernails? You make a reluctant step inside to confirm that a tiny thread spool is packed together with them. Who will ‘Need’ them? Though you desire. The screen now says ‘due’.
untitled, photograph , 2026
(Tues 03. 02. 2026)
You were here, but your gear was there. In that moment, you thought about your white mini pants and a black tank top that you have here with you. What, would that be a problem? Except from a rather amusing audience, the pants might escape from your body even during your first 25m strokes. Too loosen.
First time you opened the boy’s changing room, to yell out your partner’s name, to borrow the keys, to get your costume.
The journeys seemed longer than usual.
You felt like your pace became much shorter; as if you were being a school child; the washed-out playground seemed too vast to be reached; you couldn’t dare to look up at windows where some classes were reading out in harmonies; you knew you had to open the door trying to sneak into it on your own, where everyone’s querying eye’s would fall all on you.
The clock read that you had lost that half an hour. What precious things they had learned during your absence?
untitled, newsprint on paper, 2018
(Tues. 27. 01. 2026)
Human Act. you have read every single word of the 224 pages, with your cries and with your tongue, that matched with your unseen scenes of reality.
Spellbound. Murchison’s close-up gun is very s l o w l y turning, then towards, you. You were sitting in front of the Mag. In the heartbeat moment of fear, but you also knew that is going to towards himself.
You saw the two swans in the lake. It was just before the sun was drawing to close. The swans luminously inflated their wings to the chill air against the deep grey water. The Divine whiteness.
untitled, photograph , 2024
(Tues 20. 01. 2026)
The snow only pointed out that you were there. In the front garden, at the doorstep.
Then, the next morning, two x-mas trees covered your face again.
You were finally picked up, and there seemed to be a message on your back.
Tried rubbing the surface off, then washed, with a rough brush.
It took a few days because you had been laid next to the ones that the landscape gardener found.
Now, the message seems clear, but also unknowable.
untitled, newsprint on paper, 2018
(Tues 13. 01. 2026)
When your consciousness came back for a brief moment during the night, you seemed wanting to connect yourself to the world of your ‘tomorrow’. You remember turning the light on. The faint memory that you were curious. It’s only 2.30. Tomorrow would come a few hours later.
You don’t understand why the long hours of sleeping is for being oneself?
And you always forget how dark the mornings are this time of year, and complain to yourself that your ‘today’ started so late.
