I woke up in the middle of the night.
I was lying on my back.
My thoughts were going in all directions.

I got up,
got dressed
and left the house.

I walked to the tower,
I had earlier noticed on the horizon..

I invited some friends
to make a ten minute long audio recording
of someone close sleeping.

In editing I superimposed the recordings
as layers into one combined file,
a document of collective intimacy.

I sit in front of a map with a notebook.
I look at the map, and in my mind I walk a path that I walked very often. 
I imagine the route in real time. As I walk, I make notes of what I pass, what I might see, and the directions I follow.

The description takes 42 minutes, which is the same time as it takes to walk.
 

The walk took place on 16 September 2022,
over a distance of 8.4 km and lasted 126 minutes.

I walk east, across the tarmac. After forty steps I pass two barns. I follow the road, down the slope, turning slightly to the left. At the bottom, I turn right onto another road, almost in the opposite direction. On the left is a large cushy grass field, on the right a hill. About 100 steps further, I turn left onto a path of gravel and crushed stone. The path bends slowly to the right and uphill. I pass another path on the right, covered in grass, but walk straight ahead. After a swampy area on the right, I see a rampart behind which is a lake. The path on which I walk meanders on, alternately ascending and descending. I walk on and between the trees I see that the lake ends. Then, after a few metres of bushes, the second lake begins. I continue on the path, downhill and come to a fork in the road. I follow the gravel path to the left, past the third lake. The path rises again, branches off to the left and leads to a fork a little further on. I now take the path to the right, along the edge of the forest. To my right is a field, glowing in the sunlight. After a while, the path I walk on runs into the forest. It is cooler here. After sixty steps, the path bends to the right, past a flowing spring on my left. A little later, the forest ends and to the left of the path is a hedge of trees in front of a meadow. To the right is just open land. After walking for a few minutes, I see an empty old farmhouse between the trees. On the bare walls is canvas tarpaulin. I follow the path further to the left and up, and at a junction I turn left again into another stretch of forest. The path here is formed of clay and filled with dry leaves. My footsteps sound different, dry, rustling. On the left side of the path is a neglected meadow, with bushes and some big old trees. The path is fairly flat here, only starting to rise again a little further on as it bends off to the right. To the left and right are orchards with walnut trees. After about five minutes, the path ends at an asphalt road. On the road, I turn left and walk in the direction of a village some distance away. On both sides of the road is fields of grass. On the left cows are grazing, on the right there is nothing. Walking into the village, I first pass a large manicured garden, after that houses on both sides. At a distance, I hear the sound of a brushcutter. Very close by, in a garden, a dog barks. The road goes straight through the village and continues between walnut trees. After a few minutes is a stop sign at a junction. I turn left and pass an old farmhouse. Past the farmhouse, I turn right and walk towards the motorway. The road surface is full of cracks. The road goes up and the landscape in front of me is smoothly mown grass and rolling. The road ends between two houses by a junction at the motorway. When no cars are approaching, I quickly cross. On the other side, the road continues in the same way, as if the motorway has only cut a piece out of it. On both sides are walnut orchards. There is no wind, silence everywhere. The road continues in a straight line and some time later I enter a village. The first building is the farm to which the orchards probably belong. Then some country houses and gradually the rest of the village. Before approaching the centre, I turn right onto a rising road, which leads to the next village. Now and again a car or a tractor passes by. Nothing else happens, like I am moving in a frozen landscape. A steep road takes me to the next village where it is just as quiet. Like a ribbon, the road winds between the houses. I cross a junction and head up an old path. Along the side stand two disused dovecotes, an old shed. Rounding a large tree, I turn left and climb up a grassy path. At the top, I have a view of the landscape and try to follow the trail all the way back to where I started.
 

An hour of continuous writing,
my feet in the water.

The work Streams was executed as part of:
Same but different: Equinox to Equinox,
September 23rd. 2022.

Curated by Martine Viale
with:
Ææ Æ Ææ
Séverine Péron
Mar Serinyà
Rotnip
Paloma Orts
Camille Santacreu
Silvia Antolín
Frans van Lent
Martine Viale.

All actions took place in
Portbou, Catalonia Spain,
except for my work,
that I simultaneously performed
in the river Lourde,
Saint-Martial Laborie,
Cherveix-Cubas,
France.