Brass
26 x 11 x 5 cm / 11 x 5 x 2 in

Lambda photo, Frame
12 x 8,5 cm / 5 x 3 in

Inkjet on paper
29,7 x 21 cm / 12 x 8 in

Lambda photo, Frame
11 x 17,5 cm / 5 x 7 in

single-channel video installation – Colour, Aspect Ratio 16:9, stereo, 12:00 minutes (loop)

Text on paper

Presented by Galerie Torri

Me­teo­rite Gar­den pre­sents it­self in the ex­plo­ded form of an ins­tal­la­tion of works equi­vo­cal in their in­di­vi­dual na­tures and in­ter­re­la­tion­ships: an old por­trait of a woman with the aura of an ac­tress, a page from a script snat­ched from its context, sump­tuous urns sli­ced in two, pho­tos of an uni­den­ti­fied dwel­ling, a video do­cu­men­ting what first looks like an au­di­tion and then fu­ne­ral rites. These dif­ferent ele­ments sug­gest pre­pa­ra­to­ry pieces for a no­nexistent film. One can spe­cu­late on the form this film, here re­du­ced to a group of re­lics, would take, but this man­ner of pre­sen­ta­tion is per­haps as ac­ci­den­tal as it is ne­ces­sa­ry. Those who re­mem­ber Api­chat­pong Wee­ras­tha­kul’s ins­tal­la­tion Pri­mi­tive or his fea­ture film Uncle Boon­mee will per­haps re­co­gnize the ado­les­cents Chai Siris has cal­led to­ge­ther for a photo shoot, as well as the land­scape of Nabua, a nor­theas­tern city on the Laos bor­der whose com­mu­nist in­ha­bi­tants were per­se­cu­ted and hun­ted by the Thai army. Or one may re­call that Ho Chi Minh – whose por­trait and home, as aus­tere as his gar­den is culti­va­ted, ap­pear and who may also lurk in the script, be­hind the Uncle who ser­ved on a French ship while drea­ming of Viet­nam – lived in the same re­gion at the end of the 1920’s, for a per­iod of time that sources di­sa­gree on, after ha­ving fled Chiang Kai-​shek’s an­ti-​com­mu­nist coup in China. This film is, if not im­pos­sible to make, per­haps doo­med to re­main in the form of an in­ves­ti­ga­tion, its ac­tors to wan­der like jungle ghosts, culti­va­ting their trees away from prying eyes, wai­ting for their des­cen­dents to fi­nal­ly learn to pick their fruits.

text by An­toine Thi­rion