An explorer of fragments, waste materials and clashing sets of patterns, Alexandre Bavard from France inhabits and even wears the city in order to dialogue with it.
Worn as an armor the past can seem unbreachable, held with clasps in an ambiguous gesture torn between care and melancholic disgust. Once it settles into the body it tends to suggest certain gestures that, while completely silent, have a certain black and sticky noise to them. This sonic substance curves and tangles, registering epicenters of regret, pink-purple agonies and a preference for the licking and regurgitation of old eroded concrete that if left unchecked will surely result in uncomfortable suburb-shaped rashes and the kind of emptiness that begets questions no one has the time to answer.
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