Crash —1996, 2002

The night of december 6th he drove home after visiting a local club.

He had a rough few past months but he felt better now. The roads were badly lit, icey, rural. He listened to the radio and groped compartments for cigarettes or chewing gum. He went over different thoughts while speeding the car along the bends. The redhead, the blonde, the floor mat laying slightly out of place nicking the clutch. It took a long time for the heater to warm up the car, the vapour escaped from his mouth while muttering along with the radio. Just 5 minutes in, he crashed into a tree which remodeled the passenger's seat into circular non-space while his heart ripped from his aorta, jolting him instantly out of existence.

January 2018 - ongoing

Image: RIP. Kampweg, Vorstenbosch — Vorstenboscheweg, Nistelrode.

01.06.1977 - 14.12.1996
26.05.1977 - 06.01.2002

I watched his thighs contracting as he gazed through the camera, buttocks forcing themselves together. [...] The globes of his semen would blot out the stylized intervals on the speedometer counter as the sweep of its arm rose with us while we sped along the swerving concrete.

J. G. Ballard - Crash, 1973

Images: untitled gifs, found footage, 2018.

There is something wildly attractive about shiney steel crumpled around a tree. Such potent entities bent around the body, cradling its matter. A trinity of force packed into one installation — speed, strength, megalomania. The body will escape from the compressed creases of metal and wood but only as parts and liquids. Events like the one-sided collision compose an intriguing in situ, often with one single performer and without any spectators. They function as well-documented ephemeral sculptures, encompassing all that is exiting; acceleration, mystery and perpetuity.

Images: untitled video stills, feb 2018.

Images: untitled video stills, feb 2018.