At the edge of a field in West Flanders is a strange construction. A box of sorts, a brown, corrugated iron cabin with a steeply sloping roof that faces across fields towards a narrow channel of river. The construction has but a single window, vertical, two fists wide, that runs up the entire front face of it. From the field the box seems to rest lightly on the land. From across the river it seems to blend darkly into a grove of trees. From behind, it has double doors that are reached by a flagstone path that winds through birch trees and ivy. There is something otherworldly about this cabin, perched at the edge of this field….
The Lost Volumes are being written in the cabin at the edge of the field. They are to be a narration, in sixty stories, of the artistic research project Nothing of Importance Occurred. See separate website here.
