Stories from Baouan: 'Art Cellar'

Back then I made a little side money writing reviews for a newspaper, and it goes without saying that when, one morning, I came across an invitation in my mailbox from a befriended, by lineage abundantly well-to-do artist-cinematographer who was commencing to make himself a name in various artistic circles, asking me to come over to his mansion where he had himself a small, private home theater installed, to watch a movie in select company, I didn't hesitate for the blink of an eye to accept. Assuming it concerned a preview of his latest work and anxiously looking forward to the result, I arrived (for the main part of the route I had taken a train out of town, subsequently I covered the last stretch along various country lanes by foot under a bright afternoon sun) on the designated date a little before the specified time on site. At the end of the in beige-colored gravel coated, lengthy driveway that, coming from the street-side fence, ended in a minor roundabout, behind which the property arose wide and stately, I encountered two parked cars, next to which a musician I was relatively well acquainted with and a gallery owner who, through a number of tv-appearances, rejoiced in some local fame, stood sauntering, immersed in a recently started conversation. Just when I was about to join their company, the host, dressed in an old fashioned smoking jacket with a non-ignited pipe in the corner of his mouth, made, with a grand welcome gesture, his overtly clichéd appearance through the wide-opening entrance doors on the elevated terrace. He greeted us affably, be it a little more businesslike than I was used to when we met up with just the two of us, and invited his guests immediately inside the house where he led us through the spacious entrance hall, along the salon and a step behind the library, to his custom made projection room.

Somewhat ill at ease we searched for a seat among the approximately fifthy fabric-covered fold-out chairs, and ended up somewhat close to each other, thus cautiously conveying some sense of togetherness, but not on adjacent benches, as not to interact with one another too familiarly right away. Once the room lights went out and the attendees focused on the already by a film projector illuminated, wall-wide screen, the host still briefly took the floor. His appearance threw a dark silhouette on the further uniformly white, brightly lit canvas, when he surprised us by imparting that we most probably were already familiar with the work we were about to get presented, that it was far from new and neither from his own hand, but that he insisted we for once saw it in its whole intention with radically different eyes. He vehemently urged us to regard the cinematic depiction one hundred percent as a scientific treatise, to perceive everything literally, and to completely ban from our thoughts every interpretation as if it were a manifestation of the unconscious and other stirrings of the soul. He aimed to persuade us that the future of theoretical physics was to be found exactly there; it was as a pointer to the direction this discipline needed to follow in order to break loose from its navel-gazing, myopical focus on the big bang, and to force a breakthrough that could, with a sudden jerk, lead to an exponentially growing understanding of the universe. He disappeared from the raise and the projection was launched. From the very first scenes onward I recognized it as 'Inland Empire', the from 2006 stemming, at first glance all reasonable logic defying intuitive masterpiece by David Lynch, that over the years had ungroundedly got somewhat forgotten by myself.

 

The production starting off with a comet (or other celestial body) while it propels through the cosmos, certainly supported the suggestion made by the latterly uttered introductory words to not merely go delving for a meaning in the psychological realm. Once the protagonists come into the picture the sequention of scenes, albeit extremely hard to place in a chronological frame of reference, instantly captivates all of your attention, and the feature film carries you away on a mind-boggling trip that keeps you mesmerisingly enthralled for the full three hours of its duration. Bearing the intent of the screening in mind, I saw existence presented as a mysterious and terrifying fact whereto not every occurrence is perceptible and wherein evil may lurk around every corner. Making use of a show-don't-tell approach the director explores in his alienating progressions in a for the exact sciences unprecedented way the possibilities that became unlocked since Einstein brought – by attaching the non-absolute dimension of time, i.e. a succession of events on particular location coordinates, to the three-dimensional space – an already determined future that might act upon both past and present, into view. Key thereto are the unreliability and the limitations (because of its nature) of the human memory, a fact that is exuded by the (via a carefully selected soundtrack, and other to the uncanny responding sound and light effects, endorsed) contemplatively disturbed , in Lynch-movies regularly emerging acting style of Laura Dern who impressively gives shape to main character Nikki Grace. She comports herself all along as if she is constantly haunted by memories and thoughts she cannot fully grasp nor understand, so that she is non-stop confronted with feelings of existential doubt and loss of self. Truth, reality, identity and materiality seem actually relative, while dreams, imagination, myths and legends acquire the same level of solidity. The character of Freddy Howard, played by Harry Dean Stanton is however not the least affected by this. He seems fully aware of the mechanics of the world on all its levels, knows about some kind of portals in between different realities and is present as a sort of observer/inspector (who incidentally also shamelessly satisfies his own needs) of some hidden powers in the background. On the other side of the spectrum this is countered by the as stereotypical portrayed producer Kingsley Steward (a role by Jeremy Irons), who, because of his sheer superficial concerns in being successful, loses sight of all that profoundly matters. The further the movie develops the less concrete answers are given, and the more fundamental a feeling of total despair comes over you as a spectator.

Either me could not escape this, and when I noticed from the corner of my eye that both others already started coming into motion while the end credits were still running, I – not fully come to my senses yet because of the experience, and no less disoriented and overwhelmed by a bunch of inadvertedly raised questions – also cautiously headed towards the host who had positioned himself upfront in the right corner of the venue, his hands in front of his body hidden in the wide sleeves of his satin jacket, an inscrutable smirk enigmatically playing around his lips. While approaching my artistic comrade I faintly noticed a scent of ether and something strange happened to my recollection. I did not merely seem to record fresh impressions but also to mold all past memories into a new, definitely unfolded reality that was, however, never experienced by my current mind, as if both my brain and even the past itself were mutable. While I was at the same time fully convinced that it was originally announced like that, it suddenly hit me that I was not solely invited for the movie, but that an art-loving guided tour was still to follow. On top of that, from then on I knew the musician and the gallery owner to be some of my closest acquaintances who had been living together for years already and were by the time even married to each other. All this notwithstanding them obviously only recently having met one another face to face for the first time. The moment I was to address my friend about this, he halted my intent by bringing a vertically held forefinger to his mouth. With a gentle hand he navigated me to the top of a spiral staircase that disappeared, through an open tube, right there, straight downwards into the floor. As the stairs descended deeper into the ground we thus soon reached a rectangular room without windows that was located precisely under the cinema and that served as an exhibition space. It displayed a selection of the host's accomplishments, including among others some kind of console in which his own films were replayed in a loop, a man-sized, abstract 3D-installation and, hanging on the walls, a variety of works among which, next to paintings, fotographs of huge mountings he had drawn up in open air in such a way that they engaged in an ingenious interplay with both the landscape and the ever changing weather conditions. Even before we were satisfyingly done looking, we were already summoned to go further down the same stairs, since, as we were told, a whole lot of more chambers were awaiting us.

The one we visited next, right underneath the previous, showed works from artists our guide was familiar with on a personal level. I noticed for example some drawings by Bram Debraekeleer, who sketches lively scenes with a bright and strongly contrasting color palette and who succeeds time and again in fully capturing the essence and dynamics of a situation in a few coarsely drawn, yet salient and vibrant strokes. The results are often escapist in nature, though sometimes they may also look from the outsider's point of view at the archetypes of an over-standardized society. Either present were both a surrealistically tinged portrait and a ditto scene-presentation of Wouter Vanhooren who - in his frequently around graceful, vertical lines constructed, dreamy compositions - lets softer colors doubt between blending in the dark, gloomy background of the environment and conversely stand out from it completely.

 

                                                                            Wouter Vanhooren - 'Cultuurvuur'

And it did not end there. A next chapter of the subterranean tour was dedicated to contemporary artists from all over the world, and the deeper we dove into the earth the more spectacular the origins of the pieces we got to see. The excitement with which we beheld the whole collection increased thus more than directly proportional, so that after a while my head started to spin from the experienced sensations. No longer mindful of my company I thoughtlessly descended the stairs ever further and visited with the likes of an addict, in a seemingly endless row one room after another. With some time passing it became increasingly hard to fully grasp the monumentality of the adventure. What I recalled of the abundance offered were amongst other a Banksy that was somewhere in London ripped out of a wall with a concrete drill, an as tall as jumpy spray can painting by Jean-Michel Basquiat, a doodle Keith Harring made with a marker on a pencil case, a very probable however not certified Edward Hopper, a signed copy of Crispin Glover's 'Rat Catching', an original print of 'Une Saison en Enfer' that the impetuously to Africa departed poète maudit had never come to collect, and a fierce action portrait of a farmer with bloodshot eyes from Adriaen Brouwer. In a moment of returning clarity I noticed there were still the four of us. My feeling was that by then we found ourselves numerous yards below the ground floor. Since there was not to discern any sensory indication of this condition, an ingenious climate control system had to have been installed. Temperature, humidity and oxygen level remained flawless and near to exactly constant.

Entirely captivated I was, meanwhile, taking in a couple of unattributed sketches, originating from Da Vinci's time and surroundings, that pictured cave entrances. All had in common that when you stared into the interior for a considerable amount of time, the spaces started to transform themselves into moving tunnels whose course constantly seemed to slightly redirect itself. I had already given up asking myself any questions and was going through the dazzling experience with an immersive sense of inundation when the host woke me up from my stupor with a light tap on my elbow, and subsequently indicated that the exhibition was nearing its end, since we were on the verge of proceeding to the three final rooms.

Fully thrown out of balance we thus took the next section of stairs to a place that, upon entering, crackled with an almost tangible energy. It was impossible to stay inside for more than a few minutes. Your intestines shook until you felt sick and your brains were continuously harassed from all sides by a variety of (whether or not spoken aloud) words, thoughts and images as if they were rolling over and fighting each other to be the first to settle in there. In addition it was sheer impossible to get rid of the impression that multiple, not sensorily perceptible entities populated the place, even though you only got to see an – albeit impressive – collection of items that came forward as a cross between artistic artifacts and mystic objects, collected throughout the ages from all (even the most remote) parts of the world. Some even carried a hint of alien origin with them. From our laymen's point of view the most disturbing forces emanated from the inside of an in a salt layer in the Gobi desert uncovered, well preserved carcass of a, to nowadays standards, giant gecko. No matter how interesting it all seemed, because of the both your body and psyche affecting atmosphere we could, however, not get away from there fast enough.

As soon as we hastily reached the penultimate floor I felt a chilly gust of wind pulling my clothes while the walls in all four directions seemed to dissolve and open up into the most diverse panoramic scenes and urban landscapes, as well including every imaginable setting in between. The lifelike decors into which you could just literally take a step, altered each time your eyes moved the slightest bit and appeared endless in their differentiation. I made sure to keep my feet soundly grounded, and when I curiously stretched my head forward I inadvertedly caught Scott Yoder in the middle of a live performance at the Café Central in Brussels. While I entered upon a compelling rendition of 'Sugar on Your Lips', my mind started to concretise a whole past that led up to a life in 2025 Belgium, including the beginning of the one-hour show. Swirlingly accompanied by his highly skilled band, consisting of a solidly grooving bass, sparkling dynamic drums and intricately varied guitar play, Yoder plucked songs out of the entire catalogue of his almost a decade spanning solo career. Flexibly and fetchingly the set meandered between the boundaries of melancholic song of life ('Songs to Strangers') and thumping rock ('Goodbye Lady Day'). The evening bathed in a sense of nostalgia for Hollywood's Golden Age in its black-and-white era, what, together with the frontman's glamrock stage persona, glued everything together to a consistent, intriguing whole, and lent the overall positive, relaxed atmosphere a touch of dreaminess. No matter how much I enjoyed being there, I felt a sudden urge to retract my head, and thus returned to the final stages of the guided tour.

 

 

It had been some five years since in this room the artist had placed and activated the at that time (however still kept hidden from the general public) most advanced, with AI equipped computer, and programmed it to spit out, in an ever ongoing stream, one self generated piece of art after the other. Henceforth the machine had its matter broken down into atoms and proved – on the basis of the released energy combined with surrounding active forces – able to establish new connections between these particles and some, not yet by humanity determinated nor discernable, chemicals extracted from the air. As thus it succeeded in infinitely multiplying matter and – just because it could in converting the new constellations with an unbridled creative power into an ever growing multidimensional cosmos of, whether actual or not, projections of each single reality that could be conceptualized. A one-off, firm horizontal jerk of the head could abruptly bring you back (or forth) some centuries in time, while on the upright axis you could adjust to a specific place. Slight eye movements could be used for fine-tuning. Just a solid step forward could bring you into one of the innumerable options, in each of which both a past and a future lay already waiting for you thereby ensuring that you were not helplessly dropped as the anomaly in a hostile environment that Kaspar Hauser was. Though I did not see or hear them any longer, I still sensed the presence of my three companions, and without exception we were thus near irresistibly tempted to explore the displayed possibilities, visit at least one of them and as such step into a life of choice that we would not have dared to fantazise about even in our wildest dreams. On a first impulse I hesitated between the Seattle of 1989, the St Petersburg of the same year, Western Europe in 1870 and somewhere in the Americas around the turn of the first millennium. For some inexplicable reason I became aware that the musician was about to opt for a world in which he was the most influential rockstar in the world, and that his wife was willing to join on condition that she too played a significant role over there, specifically as the curator of the hippest art exhibitions around. The realization dawned on me, though, that there might be no way back. The opportunities indeed unfolded in every direction around me, as well above as below, front and back, as a result of which the spiral staircase, even when I was still standing on it, was nowhere to be seen any longer. The choice you made seemed therefor final. I decided to play it safe and selected the time and location when and where we had all arrived some hours before, i.e. the roundabout in front of the filmmaker's house on the day of appointment; this time with the stern determination of gently declining the offered hospitality, and with the intent to immediately return home instead and to pick up my everyday life again. I had, after all, absolutely gotten convinced that it was my only remaining chance to do so...

Therefore none reached the last chambre, where, however, the most significant clues with regard to gaining a profound insight in the human existence lay awaiting. Furthermore it seemed like nobody had managed to get in there for a long time. A silent testimony to this was provided by the thick layer of dust that covered the metal crates where no fingerprints could be discerned on either the levers or anywhere else. Nevertheless the writings and drawings on the parchment-like sheets that were stored here could be considered as some of the most significant curiosities to be found on earth. The oldest texts actually comprised a shocking creation mythology written down in a currently long forgotten, but potentially still decipherable symbolic system. It would shake the basics of both science and religion to their foundations, and send the inquiring human mind in an as yet unthinkable direction. More recent scriptures dated back to the Middle Ages and made up a tedious and incomplete, yet easier to comprehend, translation. Additionally the boxes contained some secret maps of underground passage systems and energy flows, on which likewise indications could be found concerning the axis and underlying origin of the most powerful, cosmic electromagnetic fields all over the globe. Involuntarily we thus, each with his own motives, turned this all down.

Before I had even greeted them properly I thus hurriedly said goodbye to the musician and his wife, and, while hearing the doors of the mansion swing open, I turned back on the driveway and walked, voraciously taking in all the benevolent sensory impressions the rural life had to offer on a sunny day in spring, in the direction of the train station...