Dear Salomé and Geert,
Thank you for showing both the in- and outdoor versions of Anatomy of a stumble. I loved them.
I’m writing because, since seeing your work, I’ve had an unusual experience. Let me tell you about it. I, too, stumble—mostly in a figurative sense: on life’s path. I get tangled in conversations and work situations, skid into awkwardness on holidays with loved ones, and stumble through wedding speeches.
Now, since seeing Anatomy, my stumbling has extended into the realm of dreams. At first, it was me who tumbled. In my sleep, I’d lose my balance and wake up startled. Lately though, it’s been other forms, beings and non-beings, that threaten to fall when I sleep. I witnessed a wobbling peacock: its feathers spread into a fan, when an invisible force pushed its beak into the gravel. Some nights later, I encountered a sliding, almost toppling sheet of paper. Last night, a cluster of loose foreheads pressed against a wooden fence, in an attempt to break the collective fall.
What’s your opinion on this: is this normal? Do you recognize this intrusion of the stumble? Or, to put it differently: do you too, stumble in dreams?
Annefleur
On May 13, Salomé Mooij and Geert Belpaeme will perform Anatomie van een struikel (Anatomy of a stumble) at Beyond the Black Box festival in Antwerp.