Interview

Big Interview

Andros Dresamore i: "I stand where meaning no longer wants to come"

Long silent

– sometimes literally –, Andros Dresamore i only lets himself be approached at the wrong time. Born in 1972, he is by turns a performance artist, an accidental video artist, and a former teacher of silence, a role from which he always seems to recover. Living between Barcelona, Paris and Mâcon, and deliberately chosen areas without network access, his work seems to stand outside the flow – and meaning – while revealing it.

His videos, with their restrained gestures, and his performances in public spaces are as disconcerting as they are seductive. An interview with a man who claims nothing, yet provokes a great deal.

You live between Barcelona, Paris, and “zones without network access.” Why this discontinuous geography?

Andros Dresamore i :
I try to reside where emotional connectivity becomes unlikely. Areas without a signal allow me to be available for things that aren't trying to reach me. The noise of antennas tires me. And I've noticed that my gestures are more sincere when I'm not traceable.

You danced in a street twice: once in the sun, then in the rain. And it's the same dance, without emphasis. Why?

I wanted to know if the climate had an impact on the memory of the sidewalk. Does it forget me in the rain? Do I slip into its memory? It was a study of emotional adhesion. In the end, only one passerby reacted.

You also aligned yourself perfectly with a men's restroom pictogram in an airport. Is that a criticism of the genre, or of the graphic design?

I wanted to blend into the code.

More of a way, perhaps, of escaping my own body.

Lining myself up beneath this men's restroom pictogram, I felt a kind of relief: being reduced to a neutral silhouette, without features, without organs, without history. A functional, symbolic body, which no longer weighs. Something simpler, lighter, almost abstract.

And that famous performance where you sleep in a metal barrier in the middle of the street, while a lullaby replaces the noise of cars?

I slept there, in a metal barrier, as if lying down in a parenthesis. Sleeping in a place not intended for that is a way of scratching the surface of reality—of revealing a fragility in the framework of everyday life.

The lullaby replaced the din of cars because sometimes the world deserves to be rocked. Even briefly. Even if no one is listening.

In another video, you dive your head into a trash can while the music from The Big Blue plays. Why this choice?

That day, I wanted to disappear. I needed a heavy silence, a place where nothing would call me back. And the trash can was there. It said hello to me.

So I dove in. Not to shock, just to step back for a moment. We cried together, she and I. It was our way of being alone together. The music from The Big Blue started playing in my head at the same time.

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In your relationship to the symbolic lateralization of public space, what do you make of the intermittence of floating thresholds?

This is essential. I work a lot on what I call waiting areas without beginnings. These are places where you think you're starting something, but you forget why. A stopped escalator. A bench that's too small. A closed information point. These are my favorite places.

What do you have left from your initial training?

A certain respect for not knowing. I believe that not understanding something is a form of fidelity to what it is. That's why I often answer off the cuff. Or laugh at the wrong moment.

What is your relationship with the art world?

It's tangential. I'm often next to, or behind, an emergency exit sign. I've exhibited in fine institutions, sometimes without their knowledge. I think art needs gentle interference, elegant parasites. I see myself as white noise in an empty gallery.

What is your next project?

I'm going to sit in a waiting room without an appointment. I hope to last a long time. Maybe even until I'm oblivion.

What would you say to a young artist starting out?

Don't start. Wait. Fail a little. And when you have nothing left to show, then show this.