(enter from behind the wall, put on 90-degree glasses and wander about to offer beer to the people coming inside)
(make 2 cups of espresso and draw on the back wall)
(amplify the wind, lie down to hold the stack of paper with the head, letting paper blow away one by one)
(improvise to a keyword written on each paper)
It’s not you.
It’s also not you.
It’s never you.
It’s been a long time,
but it’s not you. Hundreds of it’s-not-you.
One time I was installing an installation and I was high up on the ladder when this curator came by.
“Aki, how short does your relationship last?”
“Wrong English, Italian.”
Romance is artificial.
I’ve done a couple.
I’ve picked a fight just to pour champagne on a girlfriend.
(get inside the trash can, and sail across the room by pushing the broom against walls and the audience’s shoes)
According to this article, there is this magician who was
so good at pickpocketing, well-respected among magicians.
But the magic show critic once wrote him down.
One day in Las Vegas, they ran into each other.
The critic was wearing this polo shirt with pocket and a pair of casual short pants. Off business.
The critic challenged him,
“You know what, I think pickpocketing is a low form of magic. Why don’t you try to impress me?”
The magician humbly declined,
“No, no, I don’t wanna upset the good critic like you.”
But the critic kept pressing on him at this resort place.
So the magician went,
“I don’t wanna do pickpocketing. Let me show you a trick.”
He asked the critic to put his ring on a piece of napkin and trace it to begin with. So he took off the ring, took off this pen from his shirt’s pocket to trace,
His ink cartridge was stolen…
Clichés of romance.
I’ve done a couple. I’ve flown fourteen hours just to write all over the streets of Gothenburg, writing,
“Where are you?”
Pickpocketing is the highest form of art. Why don’t you steal my construct? I don’t wanna keep saying it’s-not-you. Hundreds of it’s-not-you. I want you to steal my construct without me noticing, so that I don’t have to say it’s not you.
I make pockets, so that I can stay in the fantasy.
(go behind the wall through the slit door)
So I have a sort of partner. Well I think I have a partner.
But it’s weird. I don’t really know what the opposite sex thinks about. Or any opposite person, really.
The other day, I saw him after a few months. He brought lots of gifts. Food mostly. It was so nice that I drooled with joy. I said,
“Thank you, food is what I love.”
I have been dormant or single or promiscuous or broken heart before that, so I was feeling warm eating this barbecued fish with grated ginger with this another person that evokes familiarity. Well, I was just discovering it’s not that bad. No frill, but I like the person, I love the food, he doesn’t smell as bad as other male creatures.
We didn’t drink enough, and the conversation goes weird, and at some point, this person says,
“Do you think you and I had romance, ever?”
A) He probably had a random bar conversation with a cognitive scientist the day before, and got introduced to the concept.
B) His neighbor is a romance novelist and he just opened one of the fan letters that stray occasionally into his post box.
C) He got a call from an ex.
D) It’s a product name for fancy food.
(push the wall from behind to sweep everybody out)
“Do you think you and I had romance, ever?”
Nobody can enter a circle. Making pockets just in case. Maybe I make too many pockets, way too many. Then that pocket becomes a funnel that sucks in all other circles but you. Hundreds of it’s-not-you.
I am not a whale that gulps the whole sea to eat little planktons. I want to be a big snake that can eat the whole whale. But my construct cannot do it.
Sometimes, I want to abandon my own construct, but unless I am the great thief, it just creates a mess. I try to destroy my construct by being next to somebody I understand, or I feel like I understand.
This partner I used to have, seems to be me. All the similarities of her started to point me towards destruction of the circle. I will taint it.
I knew all the buttons to push to upset her, who was basically me. I get joy destroying my own construct, and by the time I successfully kill my own construct, I have also disengaged any warmth and attraction between us. I destroyed the partner, I destroyed you.
How am I to know what you like if you cannot answer.
So I asked,
”What do you mean by Romance?”
And he couldn’t answer.
If you cannot answer, how can I steal your construct?
Photo: Ben Hagari, Charles Benton, Takehiro Iikawa
Movie: Wrong Happy Hour
Movie based on performance
During gallery hours, the installation evokes the atmosphere of a lonesome bar. At scheduled performances, the same space gets packed with the mingling audience drinking beer, while Sasamoto handles sculptures and wander about Romance. She goes behind the wall through a narrow slit and preach from behind. As she starts to move the mobile wall from behind, audience would realize the bars functions as rails and the lights are in fact rigged by a pulley system to be dragged towards the exit. Eventually everybody is pushed out into the street.
“Wrong Happy Hour,” JTT, New York
“PARASOPHIA: Kyoto International Festival of Contemporary Culture 2015,” Horikawa Housing Complex, Kyoto
“Wrong Happy Hour,” Mendes Wood DM, Sao Paulo