Text by Joanna Biggs

We, the institutionelles, take this space. This dribbled on, vomited on space. We will paint it white, from skirting to ceiling. Will you send us a postcard? This wall, beneath which we will make toast and ginger tea, will be a place for you all. The other walls will be ours: they are for our thoughts and manifestos and the pictures we see when we close our eyes. You can come here in person too. You can project on the walls, if you have something we ought to see. You can bring your mother.

We can’t be here all the time. Our grey, dripping days don’t belong to us, it’s only the nights that do. But it gets dark early. Then we will peep out of our fringes, we will light candles, we will stretch our pencils to the top of the walls, we will tell our stories, we will bang on our drums, we will dance. When we get tired, we will sleep in the back room. Our sofa is big enough for three.

We wondered about rules – no ginger tea in June, no drums after 5am – but we don’t need them. We don’t want to make ginger tea in June anyway. We want to disagree in the open air as much as we can, as often as we can. Then our agreements really agree. We can always put another coat of paint on the walls.

But don’t come by tonight. Please, don’t. The first project is ours. We don’t know how we will start: lying on our backs with our heads in a circle, stretching our canvases, smearing our camera lenses. All in blue, or all in white, or all in black. Fringes shaken into place. Our arms around each others’ shoulders. The first of our kind.