I sometimes imagine the gallery as a type of waiting room. A waiting room that is constantly being redecorated with new artworks, a clean well-lighted place1 an antechamber to be occupied only until I get to the main event—whatever that is. A therapist might advise me that this is very common, that we all feel like we are waiting for something to happen, waiting for our real life to start. Siegfried Kracauer says those who wait are in a state of suspension, of intellectual and spiritual homelessness. But life is a constant series of moments of waiting: waiting for the doctor, waiting in traffic, or waiting for the tram; waiting to fall asleep, for the rain to stop, or just for the end. (Excerpt from catalogue essay).
Martine Corompt