At the Brest Maritime festival, there were a lot of distractions. But a few nice surprises. One was a collection of three containers, upended in the sand. filled with the scenography of migrants who had somehow set up home inside. One was an upturned living room, photos scattered next to the chair hanging above my head, another a micro shack with bed and kitchen, the third a spinning mobile of passports in the rays of sunshine coming through the perforations in the container.
A simple piece, a poetic form of physical narrative, free from language or a particular storyline.