You stare out towards where the blues of sea and sky meet. You await the banned without knowing whether they will arrive. When they enter, you already know what they will look like. It is there before our eyes,[1] offered to you and to the curiosity of a theoretically universal public.[2]

It is a story that repeatedly speaks and repeatedly loses its voice [3] - a forever unfinished discourse.[4]

These are moments that seem to leave nothing behind[5] and therefore it will take more than on of us to encounter.
It has taken two to make this image[6]

Can you arrive, without being witnessed?

[1] (Bourriaud, 2002)

[2]  continued

[3] (Abbas and Abou-Rahme, 2015)

[4] (Bourriaud, 2002)

[5] (Abbas and Abou-Rahme, 2015)

[6] (Bourriaud, 2002)

We are standing close to the water and we are listening more than seeing. You say that at some point you will get to know the difference between a diesel and a petrol motor. Before you had the night vision glasses, your hearing was all you had.

I will stand somewhere close to the water too. I will stare out and I can already tell you that I will be terrified - so terrified of missing something - that I will see things where they are not. I will see somebody and anybody.  

You are standing at the edge of the water. It is the 19th of November 2017 -

- supposedly.

You are wearing a blue jacket and visibility vest and your backpack is on the stone ledge in front of you. You are clutching a pair of binoculars to your eyes. I wonder how long you stood there like that. And who took the picture. I wonder where exactly you stood, whether I will stand somewhere close by. 

I’m throwing myself into the Mill of the Spectacle – this is an attempt at my everyday micro-utopia[1]: I am phrasing and rephrasing what questions to ask you.

 

You have invited us to ask you anonymously, and I am taking the leap. I will try to make these collective and individual lines vanish and I will try to make a nomadic, temporary connection. Maybe this disconcerting situation will no longer be disconcerting.

 

 

And maybe if it is successful, it can be disseminated.[2]

 

 

 

 

[1] (Bourriaud, 2002)p.31

[2] (Bourriaud, 2002)p.31

‘Do you see the sea the same way?’            ‘No.     No.                              No, it’s not the same, no.                       Definitely not.                           It’s powerful. I don’t detest it, no.                                               But no.                                     Maybe it would be different in another country. But I think not.

The sea...its different, it’s powerful.

Hi there, yes, sure, ask me. I'm ready to help ‒ you say, and I wonder if you know what you are getting yourself into. My excitement turns into nervousness, as I realize that my next question to you needs to be thought through carefully.

My questions will be the linking element connecting the dots within stories, as well as the dots that are you and I.

 

I might be overthinking this, but my next question feels crucially important in establishing the form and course of the game. This game that is played between you, me, and

everyone there before us and yet to go.

 

I am thrilled by this opportunity – I hope you are too. But I guess you must be nervous. And as far as I can tell from your twitter feed you have a lot of questions.

You are wondering who I am.

 

Should you ask me, what do I say? I am a dot, like you.

I see and perceive and I (try to) comment.