Text collaborations arround works
Text by Olga Rozenblum related to the show Being fucked
Text by Olga Rozenblum about the exhibition Being fucked

And if I want - don’t want to talk about it,
It is maybe better to just let the others talk.

Alone in a small dark room
Singing for you,
Singing for you all night long.

Being alone,
Feeling alone,
Wasn’t what I expected.

I see butterflies,
Roller coasters,
Bus and planes.
Ambulances and bees.

Me being fascinated,
fascinated fascinated by you.
Your life is starting where I have the feeling of mine being
made invisible.

Feeling fucked,
Being fucked,
Life is made of fucking people.

And if I want don’t want to talk about it,
It’s maybe better to just let the others talk.
It might be a question of naming -
Am I a so-called mother and do I want to represent myself as it?
Isn’t just any life being a mother, or a parent?
If we all learn this, we will maybe all be aware of the exact
meaning of it -
And be able to take care of the Other.
Being prepared to this responsibility and extreme feeling of
solitude that shouldn’t exist.

Alone in a small dark room,
Singing for you,
Singing for you all night long.
Being alone,
Feeling alone,
Wasn’t what I expected.

I see butterflies,
Roller coasters,
Buses and planes.
Ambulances and bees.

Me being fascinated,
fascinated fascinated by you.

Your life is starting where I have the feeling of mine being
made invisible.

Feeling fucked,
Being fucked,
Life is made of fucking people.

A happy narrative song, Caroline

You learn how to be idle, how to do nothing. That is the new thing in your life- to do nothing. To do nothing and not be impatient about doing nothing. It is easy to do nothing and become impatient. It is not easy to do nothing and not mind it, not mind the hours passing, the hours of the morning passing and then the hours of the afternoon, and one day passing and the next passing, while you do nothing.

Lydia Davis

The sound of the exhibition is composed of 3 songs.
I could even make playlists where there is not always the same thing on the same flowers.

I have to do everything from home, I don't have time to go to school at the moment.

I hesitated to add something on it, on the flowers.
Maybe it's a more technological thing to put on it?
I like the idea of it being visually crafted.

What you have to be careful of is that it doesn't become pompous. Work on a balance of the romantic dimension.

Through the production, there is a way to deconstruct the place of romanticism where you are placed, bringing sex and intimacy.
There is something that prevents you from being too much in the field of romance...

Double reading: first romantic image, by doing a little on purpose.

The translation of the reader's titles:
The Argonauts (a cephalopod mollusk whose female secretes a shell to shelter her egg-laying)
The Journal of an Artist
What is it like to be a bat?
No future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive.
Undoing Gender.
Maternal thinking: Toward a Politics of Peace.
Wages against Housework.
Maternal Encounters: The Ethics of Interruption.
The Story of A New Name.
To room 19.
What You Learn About the Baby.                    

"There is a violent paradox between what is imposed on a person and which he cannot bear, and the fact that he does not know how to be otherwise. "
Elsa Dorlin

As soon as you have a child you become a representative of a certain ideology or a certain thought, which doesn't really suit you. Why put yourself in the situation of a mother?

While I try to put together the words of our discussions for the exhibition, Caroline, I am moving, after almost two years of vain attempts to do so. My son is four years old, I've been wanting to separate from his father for a while now, motherhood is too far away for us. I was like stuck all this time; I couldn't get my body out of the darkroom you're talking about, I felt fascinated and trapped, I had to keep on singing to the birds and monkeys, I felt "fucked".

" You're not the one who works, it was explained to me many times before the baby came. It's the work that takes you. It looked so good: I love the physical experiences that involve giving yourself up. I didn't know much about it, but I liked the physical experiences that involve giving up, driving over it like a truck, with no safe word* to stop it. I was prepared to scream, but labor (childbirth) was finally the quietest experience of my life. "
Maggie Nelson
* Limit reached in sadomasochistic practices.

Today, I spent my first day alone with my son in this quiet and cold new apartment. I hadn't imagined it all - or maybe that's why it took me so long: I don't know what to say to him, I don't know what to do with him anymore. I pretend to play. I take him shopping. There's the sound of the gas boiler that makes him jump every time: "What's that, Mom? Then he asked me to put on our coats and shoes and go back to where we came from. I was so eager to say yes, erase everything, I'll take you there, and I, on the other hand, I'm leaving.

Now he's sleeping in my bed, I'm back at my computer, and the transcript of our interviews is all messed up. Tonight I'm mixing everything up, I don't know what's wrong with us mothers. I have forgotten why I wanted more of our "family", I have forgotten for a long time why I decided to be a mother, I have almost no memory of what our life was like for him and me less than 24 hours ago.

"My darling,
Don't listen to those who say it's bad that we don't see each other.
not. Don't listen to those who say that you must miss me and
how unhappy you must be. Don't listen to those who
look awkward when it comes to me or the
situation or all these things. I know you know that he doesn't
you don't have to listen to anything and people talk nonsense, you're
knows very well how to look down and let it be said. It is a great
celebration to see that we can bear things. (...)
I don't know if you hate me. You don't have to answer me. You have the
right to hate me. It is even a necessity of love to hate.
There is no love without hate. Those who say the opposite
are liars or cowards. A necessity of the love of a
child for his parents, even more of a son for his mother from the
hate. Yet many sons never do. Myself
who is a daughter who loved my mother like a son, I don't know.
not if I would have been able to, and I think that's why she's
died, because she knew I wouldn't have had the courage
to kill her. And that we must kill who we love, knowing that we have to kill
is capable, that one always has the right to do so. Love is a
savagery. Don't be sad if you think of me, it's only good for
nothing sadness.
If you're still sad, know that I think about you every day.
days, I'm your mother, it's something that never stops.
I kiss you.
(Letter never mailed.)"
Constance Debré

You said to me:
Sometimes Lilie sleeps later than usual.
Do you know how old a child can die in his sleep? You shouldn't think that, you shouldn't say that.

We said to each other:
So there are two solutions: either you perforate your kind of
mother, either you become an androgynous little boy who no longer has any
of fat and more breasts.

It's as if everything is done to make you regret your choices;
yet there has to be something that makes sense. Clearly
there is failure, that of representation. You told me:

...at the laundromat downstairs, I was strong and brave...
pregnant, and I became annoying, cumbersome, too much of a nuisance.
loaded when I arrived with my stroller and lots of bags;
I had become a case.

"Faced with the stigma of being a whore, the feminist mainstream strategy
(whose main representatives are my mother, my mother-in-law, my mother-in-law
and Marlene Schiappa) is to encourage women to
to distinguish as much as possible from the category of "whore", going to
even to the point of seeking to abolish it. But instead of fighting against
stigmatization, this approach tends to be more likely to lead to the
reinforce the dichotomy between "normal women" and "bad women". She is therefore
incompatible with the idea of an intersectional feminism and
convener. »

Maïa Izzo-Foulquier

Being prepared to this responsibility
and extreme feeling of solitude that shouldn't exist.

Preparing for this exhibition has successively ridiculed you, made you afraid, prevented you from sleeping, made you afraid.
Our work is based on this collection of texts edited by Yale Union for their exhibition Mommy in 2015. Lili (our friend) gave it to me, and after being annoyed out of complacency, I reread it with you.

Tonight, the second one, I think we need to talk about something other than motherhood: children.

How responsible he is, to the limits of his capacity, for his own body, for his own safety. He holds his breath when a cloth covers his face. He widens his eyes in the dark. When he loses his balance, his hands curl around whatever comes under them, and he clutches the stuff of your shirt.

Within His Limits
How he is curious, to the limits of his understanding; how he attempts to approach what arouses his curiosity, to the limits of his motion; how confident he is, to the limits of his knowledge; how masterful he is, to the limits of his competence; how he derives satisfaction from another face before him, to the limits of his attention; how he asserts his needs, to the limits of his force.

He teaches me to be alone, he gives me strength.
This immense love, without condition, without contract, sans jouïr*.
It's a question of situation:

" : ) : smile, eyes wide open : babies : those who don't say that a car is red, but, red, black (because of the tires) and silver (because of the rims) : Those who don't care if it's a dick or a nipple on the tip of their tongue as long as they feel love: those who do :) and ;) when they chat on the net: those who smoke their first joint at six years old and risk everything on roller skates: the hope of the world. "

Guillaume Dustan, closing of the book Génie Divin (Divine Genius)

* without coming.
Text written by Olga Rozenblum
Translated from french
Text by Camilla Paolino about the show Chiara Chiara Chiara
Text by Camilla Paolino about the exhibition Chiara Chiara Chiara
Mutter, matter, mother: on the work of Caroline Schattling Villeval
text by Camilla Paolino

Planting seeds requires medium, soil, matter, mutter, mother*. Chiara died on August 17, 1308. After the passing occurred, her sisters cut her open and dissected her body in search of signs of sanctity. The chirurgical operation was led by sister Francesca, daughter of doctors, who was passed on some knowledge of the medical practice and in handling the knife was the most skilled. First, they removed Chiara’s innards and heart. Then, they filled her body with herbs and spices, and myrrh and other scents and secrets. According to the Christian custom, some balm was added in order to keep the cadaver intact, in odor of sanctity. When the mummification process was accomplished, the sisters began to study Chiara’s heart, which they found to be of exceptional size. There, impressed on the surface of that big organ, was the shape of a crucifix and the other symbols of the passion. The search continued and in the gallbladder of Chiara three small stones were found, round and smooth, which made her sisters think of the trinity. The inspection borne fruit: Chiara was divine. The miraculous events occurred way before the enclosure of medical knowledge, which came hand in hand with the enclosure of women and lands. Chiara and her sisters were nuns. They were also gardeners and healers, prophets and seers, brewers and exorcists, surgeons and botanists. They called all herbs by name and in this resided their magic. They knew how to use them to preserve organic matter from corruption, making substance immortal. They also knew how to turn all herbaceous and medicinal plants into antidotes, potions and filters. This ancient knowledge was handed down from generation to generation, perpetuating a privileged kinship between herbs and the sisters. Then, the persecutions of the XVI-XVII centuries began, and the kinship was broken. All of a sudden, the ancestral bond was undone, the knowledge expropriated and eventually lost. Chiara, only survivor of the divine ancestry and last depository of its knowledge, bore the secret inside her alone. Yet, she forgot how to possibly use it. Fences and stakes marked the shift towards a rationalist world vision, which cost confinement and domestication to both women and nature (among others). In the new world vision, there is no room for those who have been nurturing entire communities for millennia and brought and bring into the world since ever the entirety of humanity, with no exception. They are better off serving the same communities as exploitable resources, support structures, means of (re-)production. Francesco Bacone, rational man, depicts nature as a woman to conquer, bare and rape, while other presumably rational fellows complete the equation by describing women as the embodiment of the wild, irrational side of nature. Unruly, untamable, antagonistic to the master plan of modernity – besides of being old and poor and ugly, most of the time. What did Chiara think of this modern myth, a woman so sober and disciplined she died sitting straight? A peculiar way to die, they said, she took her own life to let the secrets captured in her body out, carried by muttering. The herbs and flowers which replaced her innards about seven centuries ago had proliferated in the meantime. The seeds planted in her organic matter have flourished of fluorescent guts. Her supernatural body – flesh and stones, soil and medium, biological and geological at once – bore the secret intact throughout the dark times of modernity, to pass the knowledge on. Chiara is woman and land together. Mutter, matter, mother*.

(*Haraway 2016, 120; 125)