MAARTJE SANDERS

It's too early on the weekend for anyone to be up right now. The silhouette in the cold fog lingering in the grass calls you to the silence. It's crisp. You slowly get off your bike, a tightness in the muscles of your eyes. As long as you're able to hold your breath, he'll stay there looking at you. Behind the thin, gentle veil of the morning. You wish to have a body so small it can hide beneath the mist, to feel the freshness of the first hours of the day on soft fur. You could glide through the stillness and disappear without leaving a trace.

Where were you even going this time of day?

2025 · installation, cyanotype on carpet, text

Photo: Simon Pillaud