Ariel. 14 pt.

Writing we do by hand. Or with a tool. A typewriter? We have our own handwriting. Our own favorite paper. Letters to friends or the dog. Just notes. A word somewhere. To fossilize our thoughts. Our ideas.


I write to think. To ignore ninety percent of my thoughts, to focus on the important ten. I write to order. To collect. To try and understand. I use language to try to tell myself how, why and when. The sentences are not finished. Grammar is important since I got divorced from the strict language rules. Thoughts move quickly, I have to catch them before they are gone. I just write. English. Dutch. Scribbles are equivalent to the 'finished'. I like to read and listen. But I don't, I just dream away. I'm sorry. I wasen't listening. I was thinking for myself, shape my own words out of yours.

 

Here. A collection of several types of writings. Not ordered together, although they order myself.

 

Masterthesis 2018

 

De relatie tussen

orde, regels, structuur &

de vorm en het gebruik van de ruimte rondom

In architectuur, taal en kunst.

 

Download in PDF

Flore Tanghe

june 22, 2018

 

 

One moment, I was then.

 

For one moment. And already it was gone. Lost in the fluidity of time. Lost in the weakness of thoughts. Forgotten. But vaguely, as if opening your eyes under water, it is still there. Affected with noise, I remember. Although I can’t see it anymore, so I forgot? I obliterated this ‘moment’. Then, it seemed unnecessary to engrave it in this small inner space given to the memories. The older I become, the narrower the room gets. This one moment is every minute of the busy days. Twenty-six years later, the amount of minutes/moments is immeasurable.

 

For one moment I thought I saw it again. Then. But I am now, even though I was then. Was I me then? The past is dead, in some moments. As if I only lived now.

De inkom

is de uitgang

 

klimop

langs de muur

het loopt gewoon door

 

een stuk ijzer

dat ik dacht

het leek roest

 

voeten binnen de tegels

ogen in het licht

staren

 

blikjes op straat

volle blikken

lege blikken

 

een vlucht van fluoriderende lijnen

tegels voor blinden

alles is gespot

vlekken

 

soms staan er geen

en dan is het leeg

 

zucht

 

alles waait in mijn richting

alles loopt mee

houvast aan één kant

boven de tegels

 

alles slaapt

in het licht

 

fracties van een proces

slingeren in stilte rond

 

ongebroken barsten

doorbreken

de vlakheid van het opdringerig licht

 

over de lucht hangen takken

 

een witte boon op de rioolput

terug tegels

onkruid

 

aangetrokken tot de rand

loslatend van mijn vaste houding

 

cameraploeg

rechts , links

huizen die van niets beseffen

 

onbewust

stuurzaam

 

uitrit vrijlaten

 

 

Waarnemingen op straat, 2017

 

 

june 22, 2018

 

Dear Katie, the city took a shower.

 

 

Oh God Katie.

 

I still haven’t sent your letter but now I find the time because yesterday was my final jury. It was really good, they were positive and my mentors were also very proud. I don’t know my marks yet but I’m sure I will pass… It is comforting to sit at a random table in the hallway of the graphic design department of our school, to write to you without any doubts about my graduation project. I feel calm and fresh, like a long during feeling of the moment after a shower to wipe away the stress from the busy days. I feel able, after a long time, to fours myself on one thing at the time. My brains are no longer behaving themselves like a rollercoaster in overdrive. My thoughts were jumping from one thought to the other, constantly trying to remember every detail of my activities, like a rabbit who’s desperately looking for his lost beloved baby. It is as if I fount, whatever it was, what I was looking for.

 

I woke up this morning with the most strange feeling of drowning while I could still breathe. The moment I pushed myself towards my bike, to not feel bad about (whatever actually?!) ?; then suddenly this sort of frightening but satisfying freedom was finding its way through all openings in my body. My nose, mouth, ears and even through my skin pores, this unfamiliar freedom was entering in silence. So now I feel calm. Looking out of the window towards the city where I lived in as a student. Where I grow up, developed myself as an ‘artist’, got drunk, celebrated many new years. Now the city seems different like it’s past events happened somewhere else. As if its history whipped itself away and the city also took a shower. As if all buildings are painted over and the sun is reflecting its light so that every corner is illuminated. So here I sit. Writing somehow poetically to you, to try and explain how “being graduated” feel. How do you feel nowadays?

 

Sorry for my late letter…