Hosting a salon

Spring. Autumn. Winter. In 2021, five artists spent different seasons in a house in Brussels. Within and outside these walls, a dual energy guided the period of this research residency, alternating between concentration and exploration, introspection and strolls at large. The Fondation Thalie provided the resources to develop projects within an artistic scene entailing several circles of action. A centrifugal urge absorbed all the information collected out and about in the field. Going out as much as possible to expose oneself to a climate with which each artist was familiar in his or her own way. Perhaps they simply had never gone, just passed through, come as a teenager to drink beers with their dad, visited regularly, or were going to come soon to do their fourth solo.

A home studio

In contrast to this eagerness for the outside world, there remained a convergence, a space unto oneself for several weeks, where one received as much as one was received. One worked at home, just not one’s own. Studying became a routine. From the kitchen window, next to the coffee machine, there is a view of the neighbour’s yard, in which two stone greyhounds sit patiently. Canines came and went during Hugo Pernet’s stay. There was Maggi, and then Sénèque, Bo, and Fog. Wuaf-wuaf. Wao-wao. Woof-woof. Barking always seems to happen in pairs. It’s amazing to see the range of animal onomatopoeia across the different languages. Translation and correspondence took place frequently throughout this annual session, influenced by a structurally bilingual capital city, even if this meant resorting by default to a third language.

Open tiramisu

Their Italian names had nothing to do with their simultaneous arrival at the end of the summer. Joseph Schiano di Lombo and Salvatore Arancio happened to coincide here for a brief time. The former had just released an album for man’s best friend titled Musique de niche. The latter was used to the crappy weather, having lived in London for more than two decades. Together, like the three others, they met curators and journalists, visited the others’ studios, made the rounds of the galleries, rummaged in the local libraries, and visited the area. The joys and indiscretions of social life punctuated their interactions, be this at a cheerful bar or the wrong seat at a dinner, different communities all rubbing up against one another. The domains of creative writing and the visual arts, diction and image, enveloped each sensibility that was hosted in various ways.

A foreign studio

An irresistible attraction for the fog of Ostend reddened the lips. A feline allure gradually settled in. Meow. Miaou. Miaw. And why not Mao? People strummed the guitar, surprising everyone with their voice, and they lit incense and stirred up rumours. Annelyse Gelman and Zoe Williams were spellbinding, each in their own way. It was OK to get into an argument during an anti-vax protest at the Central Station and feed off each other’s incomprehensions. They came from elsewhere and preferred the weeds. They in turn invented a version of an open studio without having one, sharing their hospitality where thoughts are made. It was a question of becoming domestic without getting dirty. Immortalising oneself in the decor of other buildings in the neighbourhood. Rummaging through the wastebins of chic restaurants to collect oyster shells. And finally going to see the Atomium.