Autumn in France. We drive through the forest toward the fairy forest—an ancient wood, Gallic or Celtic, where stone basins stand and forest gods are carved into gigantic boulders. The road to the forest is lined with triangular warning signs. Chasse en cours. A hunt is underway. We see them walking—the hunters. They wear neon pink jackets and carry rifles just as pink. Some have perched on wooden scaffolding, built for the season among the trees.
At our forest entrance, the signs are there too. Chasse en cours. Chasse en cours. Chasse en cours. Three hunters emerge from the woods. And a wet dog. Unlike what you might expect, they’re not dragging dead animals with them. One hunter has a rifle slung over his shoulder, another wears a knife at his belt, the third keeps the dog in line.
The man with the rifle seems somewhere else entirely. He doesn’t greet us. He shuts the signs, blows three times on a plastic horn. The hunt is over. He pulls out his phone, makes a call, and watches a video with the sound turned up: cries of panicked animals, the final moments of a wild boar. Meanwhile, the man with the knife points us toward a pleasant path. You can walk freely again now, he says—but don’t enter the forest while they’re still working. Especially not if you happen to be wearing a brown woolen jacket like mine. Try sitting on an ancient stone like that to eat your sandwich. Well, he wouldn’t recommend it. Better not wear camouflage colors this season. It’s safer to stand out.
Which leads me to think—if I want to save the next wild boar in this fairy forest from a bullet, I’d dress it in a cape. A pink one. Neon pink. Until 15 November, Salomé Mooij’s Het Schuilatelier (The Shelteratelier) will be presented in Korea as part of the Gwangju Biennale. Het Schuilatelier is a one-on-one performance: a conversation that culminates in a scale model of a bespoke refuge, shaped around the visitor’s own need for shelter. This new sheltered space will become part of an ever-growing collection.