am dat peste raportul scris dupa rezidenta din montemor. a trecut un an de atunci.

Big words, lack of words, fear of words. The paradoxal situation of someone who sits alone in room writing about an intense collective experience. Fighting to regain a feeling that have drained in time like the taste of an amazing food that you cannot recall but you do keep tell to the others that was amazing. Heart Masturbating with the pics and videos. Light smells of the food brought by e-mails.
„I want also to develope the project that I have started in Montemor (did you noticed that we always prefered to say Montemor than O Spaco do Tempo?”
„I miss our exhausting days in Montemor”
„thank you again for sharing your program with me, it’s really fantastic. I hope to read/perceive more of your work someday soon.”
„I still have in my bodymind the feeling of our nice moment in Montemor. So rich
and fullfilling!”

„It was hard to leave the sunshine of Montemor and the great group that had assembled there.”
„ I miss Montemor. I treasure the moments we spent togheter. What a special feeling, what a fairy tale we lived! „
„We hope you are all doing well after our wonderful time together. It’s been a month now since we’ve gathered in Montemor and we imagine many things must have happened with each one of you since then. „

Being aware of this post-experience mood even since the last days of the recidency. Trying to build some pillars, like Hansel & Grettel leaving a trail of crumbs. Not in order to find a way back but to build a bridge between past and future. Again, big pretentious words. A severed part of a fugitive body in the shape of man. A laptop, the reification of our times. Looking For Sugar Man playing on reapeat. The Good wins. The conflict between what I need and what we might need. Negotiation of the self. A delicate ballet: dealing with individuality in a collective residency. Delicacy covering an iron fist. Bubble time: the epitome of the condition of the contemporary man. How to allow another being in our bubbles? Bursts of happiness when this is happening and no one is hurt. The parallel between kids and and the dancers, the residencies as a playground. Creativity could come from a full heart, you always have to remember even you’ll be at your window, watching the park, full of sweet rage. But you’ll forget. A chicken is travelling the screen. Looking for the seeds of inspiration. Inspiration. Creativity. Tolerance. Acceptance. The burden of so many big words on the hunch of a single man.

It’s around 9, you are in the kitchen drinking coffee, smiling at the tousled faces of the others, same as yours, mumbling some words, carrying the laptop, covered in the warm collective presence like a blanket folding a body. Next day you are in another city, in another constellation, digging another project of art or life (who can tell the difference) trying to build another bodies of work. Some days you enjoy solitude, some days you enjoy the company of the friends or a warm presence on the prolonging of your body. What matters in love is not if the other loves you but how you feel in his/her/them presence. When people are recalling with a melancholic touch a lover from the past, they are nostalgic about how they were in that period of time. A report is an official crumb of your life. A little private chapter of your memories intended for a file. Writing memories it makes you feel old.
Two month from that blanket feel morning you are in your home or in another residency trying to write a report. The final report is for the artists is like the hangover for the drunk. God’s punishment for having fun time. Reckoning Day. Nobody will force you to do it, but you’ll know from the scratch that you’re gonna write and do things for some others everytime when you’re appealed for. Then you start, looking for some seeds in “our future references”: the external hard disk who embedded the visual part of our experience. You add word after word, triggering feelings and nostalgies, like a chicken ticking angleworms from humid soil.
At some point you stop writing, leave your bubble, interacting with the new constellation. When you’ll go back to writing, you’re already biased by the interaction. “Every interruption is an interaction” then you write smiling as school boy who just gave a smart ass line to the teacher.
Only then you decide to stop the so called automatic writing report. Because it ain’t one.
But appearances matter.