Level 45 Degrees (p. II)
Léo Fourdrinier
KOTZ
Lucille Leger
Walls were merely suggestive. Relics of things that once were walls, but had been transformed into the remnants of buildings. Flattened out and deconstructed into the mode of their efforts, absorbed into its structure, ashen gray sameness. Through the skeleton of the bank lobby, I could see the elderly Cuban woman selling guava and cheese rolls, and half warm coffee, her hair netted. A line of shoppers pretending to see walls. Beyond that there was the laundromat, its machines appearing ten thousand years old, and beyond that makeshift shelves being stocked with dented cans of peas and tuna fish by a group of school children.
Léo Fourdrinier
SUN THUG, 2020
Variable dimensions, window charred after arson of three motorcycles, burnt plants, paint, can of Coca-Cola®, copper, wasp nests, mirror.
I felt from the heat and what still hung in the air, a vague nausea, a light nausea just at the edge of becoming. I had not delivered a single letter since it happened. Now as I walk not on duty, I am ironically in route once again to deliver an envelope. Perhaps the postman like the writer is even at work on vacation, though of course I was not on vacation either, nor did I deliver mail any longer, at least not for now. The dumb hands on my watch face had not moved, still showing 4:52. It was a letter to my landlord. I did not know my landlord as they worked for a large conglomerate of landlords and we had never met in person. The building lay past a stretch of the city that had been selected for a sacrificial zone.
94 x 164 x 50 cm, flat screen, plastic chairs and steel cart. Video: "NASA Sun Sonification (raw audio)" , 1:23. Credits: A. Kosovichev, Stanford Experimental Physics Lab. Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-I-zdmg_Dno&t=1s
60 x 41 cm, colour printing on A4 paper. Source of the web article: Link here
Variable dimensions, wheelchair, flat screen, copper, inflatable beach ball, mineral ceiling tiles. Video: " Coke and Lava Nikon D800 and Gopro " , 1:42. Credits: Bryan Lowry / lavapix.com. Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GaSjwAu3yrI
A streetcar vendor, roast peanuts in sugar and honey, its sweet scent filling me with ennui. The old man selling confections has rotten teeth and a gaunt frame, he swims in the thin material of his aged jacket, the outline of his skeleton nakedly visible both on his hands and in his face. Clumsily in a perverted English, he declares the name of his product repeatedly. The sound rising and lowering in volume with each affirmation. I wondered how many times a day he has bellowed the same few words? I imagined it fell from him now, its movement lost to involuntary memory. His tattered mouth would hinge open and the sound would escape. After a few blocks I find a nearly vacant bistro and order a cappuccino with sweet cream and a chocolate éclair. The waiters move rigidly between tables and speak very little. To pass the time, I read from a local newspaper. The pastries sugar burns in the crevasses between my teeth. I haven’t seen a dentist in a year and now my dentist is dead, his shadow scolded in the pavement, or his body evaporated in a swift exodus. The image of the reservoir I had seen the previous night appears once again in its sensational print.
KOTZ,
Somethig smell bad
Great, thanks!
It isn't only about that
It is way more
That what you think it is
You seem to forget
We are not
As easy as that
But but but all the worshippers
Keep telling that
It is just fine
Are you high or
Did you fall of a ladder?
Plumes of black smoke fill the room. Some moments seemed to lack time. Moments that would leave only the trace of some illusory time, like a film or resin, of sorts, that would collect like dirt on the skin. Sirens echo off the city’s endless system of walls and half walls and hills of grey rubble, projecting sound in every direction. Particles of incinerated objects listlessly succumb to gravity. The thick scent of smoke proliferates with each gust of wind. Soon the burn has weaved into the fabric of my clothes, clinging to my skin. The waiter noticed me sniffing my coat, “I apologize for the smell; the buildings have been on fire since it all happened.” I told him it was fine.
Lucille Leger,
Vulnerability Sinks into the Closed Doors, 2020
(Series of photographs made in collaboration with Konstantinos Kyriakopoulos)
There was only one wall, that was only 2/3rds of a wall, three tables propped on grey bricks and covered in gray cloth or ash (the forearms of my shirt now stained, the skin on my back and thighs covered in soot), and six or seven steel pillars. I could see the chef cooking chunks of meat on a primitive stove consisting of a shopping cart and stones, heated by a strange green flame. The same green flame that would not dissipate, lingering like apparitions throughout the city. The letter to my landlord rests on the table two inches from the cup saucer, it is too now ash ridden, I still hoped they would accept it.
The waiter tripped on an unknowable lump of gray hardness, hitting his head on the ground, a fog of ash billowing around him. Helping him up I noticed a half his face was covered in a purple welt, the skin taut and alien, as were patches of his right arm.
“The wings pointed past trick waters minutes, police silhouettes, cedar hedge, stone tags and the in- pan belts of trees and bushes, richly foliaged polished oil derrick, vector lines, would permeance hide me and any light I might make.” A siren somewhere in the distance rang, though it was not nearing. The smell of the meat burning on the shopping cart began to make me sick, or that is the waft of burnt meat, or, no maybe, it was smoke of the green flames burning the building, aggravating my mild or nearing nausea. I did not understand what the man had meant. Perhaps he had really hit his head hard. It was unsteady footing anywhere, as most of what was now lay inert, and gray, and hard, and unknown. Each step a bricolage of loss. My teeth had not stopped aching. The waiter had perfect teeth, despite having a burnt face. I wanted to ask if he knew of a dentist, but the waiter did not seem coherent enough to elaborate on his hygiene or its maintenance. Trading place in a cosmic sense, I sat the waiter down at the table. He had a little blood running down his chin.
Level 45 Degrees (p. II)
Léo Fourdrinier
KOTZ
Lucille Leger
Walls were merely suggestive. Relics of things that once were walls, but had been transformed into the remnants of buildings. Flattened out and deconstructed into the mode of their efforts, absorbed into its structure, ashen gray sameness. Through the skeleton of the bank lobby, I could see the elderly Cuban woman selling guava and cheese rolls, and half warm coffee, her hair netted. A line of shoppers pretending to see walls. Beyond that there was the laundromat, its machines appearing ten thousand years old, and beyond that makeshift shelves being stocked with dented cans of peas and tuna fish by a group of school children.
Léo Fourdrinier
SUN THUG, 2020
Variable dimensions, window charred after arson of three motorcycles, burnt plants, paint, can of Coca-Cola®, copper, wasp nests, mirror.
I felt from the heat and what still hung in the air, a vague nausea, a light nausea just at the edge of becoming. I had not delivered a single letter since it happened. Now as I walk not on duty, I am ironically in route once again to deliver an envelope. Perhaps the postman like the writer is even at work on vacation, though of course I was not on vacation either, nor did I deliver mail any longer, at least not for now. The dumb hands on my watch face had not moved, still showing 4:52. It was a letter to my landlord. I did not know my landlord as they worked for a large conglomerate of landlords and we had never met in person. The building lay past a stretch of the city that had been selected for a sacrificial zone.
94 x 164 x 50 cm, flat screen, plastic chairs and steel cart. Video: "NASA Sun Sonification (raw audio)" , 1:23. Credits: A. Kosovichev, Stanford Experimental Physics Lab. Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-I-zdmg_Dno&t=1s
60 x 41 cm, colour printing on A4 paper. Source of the web article: Link here
Variable dimensions, wheelchair, flat screen, copper, inflatable beach ball, mineral ceiling tiles. Video: " Coke and Lava Nikon D800 and Gopro " , 1:42. Credits: Bryan Lowry / lavapix.com. Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GaSjwAu3yrI
A streetcar vendor, roast peanuts in sugar and honey, its sweet scent filling me with ennui. The old man selling confections has rotten teeth and a gaunt frame, he swims in the thin material of his aged jacket, the outline of his skeleton nakedly visible both on his hands and in his face. Clumsily in a perverted English, he declares the name of his product repeatedly. The sound rising and lowering in volume with each affirmation. I wondered how many times a day he has bellowed the same few words? I imagined it fell from him now, its movement lost to involuntary memory. His tattered mouth would hinge open and the sound would escape. After a few blocks I find a nearly vacant bistro and order a cappuccino with sweet cream and a chocolate éclair. The waiters move rigidly between tables and speak very little. To pass the time, I read from a local newspaper. The pastries sugar burns in the crevasses between my teeth. I haven’t seen a dentist in a year and now my dentist is dead, his shadow scolded in the pavement, or his body evaporated in a swift exodus. The image of the reservoir I had seen the previous night appears once again in its sensational print.
KOTZ,
Somethig smell bad
Great, thanks!
It isn't only about that
It is way more
That what you think it is
You seem to forget
We are not
As easy as that
But but but all the worshippers
Keep telling that
It is just fine
Are you high or
Did you fall of a ladder?
Plumes of black smoke fill the room. Some moments seemed to lack time. Moments that would leave only the trace of some illusory time, like a film or resin, of sorts, that would collect like dirt on the skin. Sirens echo off the city’s endless system of walls and half walls and hills of grey rubble, projecting sound in every direction. Particles of incinerated objects listlessly succumb to gravity. The thick scent of smoke proliferates with each gust of wind. Soon the burn has weaved into the fabric of my clothes, clinging to my skin. The waiter noticed me sniffing my coat, “I apologize for the smell; the buildings have been on fire since it all happened.” I told him it was fine.
Lucille Leger,
Vulnerability Sinks into the Closed Doors, 2020
(Series of photographs made in collaboration with Konstantinos Kyriakopoulos)
There was only one wall, that was only 2/3rds of a wall, three tables propped on grey bricks and covered in gray cloth or ash (the forearms of my shirt now stained, the skin on my back and thighs covered in soot), and six or seven steel pillars. I could see the chef cooking chunks of meat on a primitive stove consisting of a shopping cart and stones, heated by a strange green flame. The same green flame that would not dissipate, lingering like apparitions throughout the city. The letter to my landlord rests on the table two inches from the cup saucer, it is too now ash ridden, I still hoped they would accept it.
The waiter tripped on an unknowable lump of gray hardness, hitting his head on the ground, a fog of ash billowing around him. Helping him up I noticed a half his face was covered in a purple welt, the skin taut and alien, as were patches of his right arm.
“The wings pointed past trick waters minutes, police silhouettes, cedar hedge, stone tags and the in- pan belts of trees and bushes, richly foliaged polished oil derrick, vector lines, would permeance hide me and any light I might make.” A siren somewhere in the distance rang, though it was not nearing. The smell of the meat burning on the shopping cart began to make me sick, or that is the waft of burnt meat, or, no maybe, it was smoke of the green flames burning the building, aggravating my mild or nearing nausea. I did not understand what the man had meant. Perhaps he had really hit his head hard. It was unsteady footing anywhere, as most of what was now lay inert, and gray, and hard, and unknown. Each step a bricolage of loss. My teeth had not stopped aching. The waiter had perfect teeth, despite having a burnt face. I wanted to ask if he knew of a dentist, but the waiter did not seem coherent enough to elaborate on his hygiene or its maintenance. Trading place in a cosmic sense, I sat the waiter down at the table. He had a little blood running down his chin.
