ARTIST’S BOOK

The Artist’s Book is an ongoing intermedial work that grew out of my experience of living with ME/CFS: many things I had taken for granted began to shift, time could no longer be measured simply in hours and minutes, and energy became a limited resource.

The more closely I engaged with this changed reality, the more apparent its complexity became. Different aspects of this reality call for their own forms of expression. Individual works range from prose and poetry to images and conceptual works. Borrowed languages — from bureaucracy to architecture, tourism and seismology — as well as humour rooted in subtle absurdity offer further ways of approaching what is difficult to make visible from the outside. Together, these works form the book as a whole.

The book makes another reality perceptible without explaining it. It offers no answers, but invites the reader to question their own ideas of what constitutes a “normal life”. Perhaps it can serve as a reminder that our different realities can exist alongside one another without any one of them becoming the standard by which the others are measured.

Ahead of publication, works from the Artist’s Book are intentionally not presented online. A selected prose excerpt is included below.

EXCERPT (ENGLISH TRANSLATION)

The Visitor

I’m lying in bed. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Maybe days, maybe weeks, maybe months. I took the clock off the wall. The ticking is too loud. The blinds are open just a tiny crack. The light is too bright. My body has shut down the function of speech. I can breathe, but only halfway.

(…)

The energy in the room changes. I notice it immediately. A break in the monotony. I turn onto my right side.

He is sitting at the desk. Perfectly upright. I have no idea how he got there. Certainly not through the door.

(…)

He turns his head and looks at me. He looks different from how I had always imagined him.

His black hair is slicked back, not a single strand out of place. It brings his sharp features into relief. His dark-blue three-piece suit is immaculate. As if it had been moulded to his body. Almost too perfect.

“Hmm,” he clears his throat.

“A change in my visual appearance was deemed absolutely necessary by my superior, as recent client surveys showed insufficient levels of confidence in my image.”

“So the cloak with the hood…” I think aloud.

“…is unfortunately no longer permitted under the new RD-OCA-26,” he adds.

“RD-OCA-26?”

“Rebranding Directive for the Optimisation of Client Acceptance, dated 15 May 2026,” he explains, adjusting his gold cufflink.

The new outfit suits him.

He reaches for his slim attaché case and takes out a file.

My file.

My name is on it. And it’s thick. Very thick.

“What’s in there?” I’m curious.

“Everything.”

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