A durational performance contemplating the possibility of forgetting.
Kneeling in a hole in the ground, my back against a wall, blindfolded, in the courtyard of a former military food warehouse. A mound of 150 kilo of flour is in front of me.
I try to blow the flour away, with my breath.
The flour rises into the air, but then settles on my arms and hands and face and hair, and back onto the mound as well.
Five hours later the flour has moved, but hardly disappeared. It has simply redistributed itself.
I understand that forgetting is not so easy either.
