Where transformations take place, where bodies quiver, where stars follow their path.
Where Dominique Vermeesch's components and impossible classifications circulate: files, biographical excerpts, sharp stethoscopes, performances, readings and icons give form to this consciences and questioning jumble shaping her whole creation.
Because orders and disorders of a glimpsed universe imply random or instinctive classification by opening and closing drawers filled with streams and doubts while spreading invisible sounds.
Because the build-up of History leading figures make light of lies and truths ramifying inside our genetic heritage.
Because the magical load of scientific discoveries and turmoils appear a bit more every day at the end of telescopes and nail fetishes.
Because the words, sounds, invisible electricities binding our underestimated or misunderstood atoms together, from ears to toes, pertain to the same galaxy as our heroes, chromosomes, precepts and relics.
Because black holes and constellations comply with our ignorance, and knowledge is just another mute God.
Because Bosch's, Rubens', St Sebastian's arrows, colours and cries covet the ones of those lying on hospital beds and because the convolutions blessed with this peculiar energy of operating tables also build their fair share of infinite clouds, of the hundred and one planets awaiting us all.
And because centuries did not allow them to broadcast yet.
Because a consultation applies to records and aching bodies alike.
Because it really is a thread of marrow that transforms our bones into a spine and because this thread spins out of a global spindle twisting before us.
Because it is not too late to think about tomorrow's archeology.
Because our outward coverings talk to our skeletons in mysterious ways.
Because wardrobes will eventually be filled up and because their metal gets them to vibrate.
For all that and much more.
It is not just about giving birth, going somewhere, but passing through.
And reconciling curiosity about the world with our humble pile of cells.
François Delvoye
