In 2011 Mariken Wessels and I collaborated on a book, Keepsake.

Read my text Monument below. | More on the book.


I am
C, I am
the color blue.
I am
black, white
and yellow, I am
the sound of
wind leafing
through the pages of a book,
the sound of
distant thunder, never
a word or maybe
a few.

I am
faded yellow and no place
to go
but home.

M sits by the window. Clouds keep altering the light, changing it from bright to grey within seconds.
M leans forward to look down at the city. The street is crawling with ant people on their way to work, lunch, hair dresser, lover, supermarket, school.
C, she thinks.
C is on her way home.

M looks down at her hands, flexes her fingers. She stands up and straightens her back. She slouches, licks her lips. She walks diagonally through the living room.
She is on her way home. Or so she lies.

I am
C, I
take the bus, don’t have a car, I
dress with the lights off, I
prefer the dark.
I confuse light
with loneliness.

I am
in a sigh, a slight
change of tone,
in cheeks, back
straight and

handshake, a
look, a
gesture, a
smile, a
lie and
am C.

M is in the back of the car. She takes out the watch she bought from a gypsy on the street. She would never
buy a watch like this but C would. She straps it on and looks at her hand. Flexes her fingers into a lie.

M thinks of flowers and of the shadows flowers make.
C, she thinks.
C is shy, she’s lonely. M is lonely too but never alone. There’s a difference, she thinks, but she’s not sure.

M takes C’s watch off and plays with it while looking out of the window. She mimics small gestures and movements of passersby. Slow down, she commands the driver. She watches old ladies and young children, pregnant women and groups of girls. She mirrors the walk they walk, the way they hold their purses, the movement of their heads and hands and hips and shoulders, their laughter and the look in their eyes.
She puts the watch back on and repeats her lines once more.

I am
you can
trace me down
the corridors
and watch
me sleep.

I am
all the colors you
can dream of and the

M is on stage, existing only in the warm yellow light that makes her visible to the audience and the audience invisible to her.
M is C, she is the shy and lonely girl that resembles faded yellow, that has no life, just a home and prefers darkness, always.
No, she thinks. I am not C, I am me. I am a monument, a grave. I create and I kill. I shaped C, lent her my body. Applause and flowers will bury her.
Here lies C.

M's last words are but a sigh. She kills C with a smile, breaks her posture with a bow. The monument is a memory, the shadow of a flower.

I am
here lies
No lies.
Only lays.