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Open Books, INFINITIF publishers

Tim Bruggeman, Sébastien Conard, Lore Smolders

The Green Corridor

Rue de Bosnie 102, 1060 Bruxelles

February the 11th, 2024


The first writer settles in a library in another country. The object of his interest is Narcissus, looking into a well. After a period of work, a pretty collection of Narcissuses, differently shaped, but mainly well-fed, makes their way into a slim edition, into my hands. I bet a little van was hired to transport them little rascals. It might be the rare type of writer with a driving licence, who smuggled the Narcissuses himself. All merry in a car share, with friends, some animals, deaths, and sandwiches. The writer is calm behind the wheel, and reluctant to speak about himself, or his position towards his work. Would one big well be enough for the journey of Narcissuses, or was there none and they stared at each other instead? Did they get a passport each, with exact same names, and if yes, how did the border control react? Strangely, this poetic affair inspires pragmatics questions. Might that be a calming effect of admiring a case of a successful group logistics?




The second writer used to have a particular interest in reconsidering his own name. One can easily change it, he says, and yet know that it is still his own. It’s a contagious thought…He says, you can put extra letters in between syllables of your old name, and there you have it. I try:  Po-Chi-Li-Chi-Na-Chi... A woman, looking at her Italian dentist self. Is it how it works? One can see the appeal in the procedure! Perhaps this experiment should be continued in an intimate setting, some place that allows a reflection of my glasses and an echo. How many names are too many?... With an attitude of energetic inquiry, the second writer collects fragments from different sources. Appropriation, or borrowing? – asks the third writer ever so directly. The second writer takes a long sip from a yellow drink.



One name seems enough to me, says the third writer. The gynaecologist confirms: it better be a short one too, for the sake of the secretary and the medical staff that must write it down fast and correctly every time. (Nar - Chi - Ci - Chi – Sus – Chi – S – Chi). It’s not an autobiography, the writer says, and it’s not the prettiest of sights, I say, but a funny one, we all agree: The portrait of a gynaecologist, looking into my vagina. Those colours are not at all colour-blind friendly, reacts someone in the public. It’s more factual, like applied science, or the yellow drink. Only in this case, the fact becomes touch which leads to a fading of certain type of focus we have been using until now: my eyes get some rest as I go to say hi.

Polina Akhmetzyanova


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