Performance follows function
05 March 2025I was invited to perform at PH Solothurn’s Kulturmärz, a month-long celebration of art, culture, and education. This year, the vernissage was dedicated to Peter Bichsel, one of Switzerland’s most renowned writers. His way of finding depth in the everyday has stayed with me ever since my class attended one of his readings in primary school—it left a lasting impression. His storytelling shaped how I think about identity, materiality, and transformation, and in many ways, it has influenced my artistic practice.
With that in mind, I created a performance that resonated with the themes of the event while staying true to my own approach. Bichsel and I have birthdays just a day apart, which made my participation feel oddly personal. His passing shortly after the event added another layer to it all, making this moment of reflection feel even more significant. My deepest condolences go out to his family, friends, and everyone who was touched by his work.
This performance started with a request—an invitation that came with an unspoken framework. I expected that a performance in this setting, at PH Solothurn’s Kulturmärz, would follow a certain structure—recognizable, contained, fitting within the event. So I leaned into that expectation, shaping something that felt “correct.” But within that structure, I looked for ways to shift perception, to let discomfort and uncertainty seep in.
I built the performance around a core question: What gives clothing its value? The outfit I wore wasn’t designed for this moment—it had formed over years, piece by piece, from things I had made without knowing they would belong together. I chose to wear them all at once, letting them take on new meaning through the performance. My movements were slow and deliberate, allowing the clothes to be seen, felt, absorbed by the space. By the end, I removed them, placing each piece carefully on the table, arranging them with an almost obsessive precision. The act of undressing, of laying out the clothes, turned them into objects of display. What changed in that moment? Did they become valuable simply because they had been performed?
Each of these pieces existed before this performance, created or found at different times without a specific purpose. Together, they formed a new whole—one that only became this outfit because I named it, wore it, and ultimately placed it on display.
1: Pigeon Shoes – Made during my exchange year at the Fashion Institute. Old brown leather, decolored and re-dyed, with elongated square toes and looped stitching. Familiar, yet off.
2: Yellow Checkered Dress with Striped Hem – A mix of an old dress and a shirt, merging patterns, timelines, and textures.
3: Red Shorts with ON/OFF Button – Once a sweater, now shorts. A reversible sequin ON/OFF button plays with activation, visibility, and control.
4: Loose Red Hair & Clown Makeup – A signature element of Venus Cyborg—amplifying presence, distorting the line between character and self.
5: Getting into Character moments before the performance.
6: White/Pink Tights – Hand-altered with black marker. Words like kiss my lips and you are safe mix with drawings of insects, keys, and stars—part diary, part map.
«Ich stehe hier, I'm standing here»
The text held the structure together. Inspired by Peter Bichsel, I wrote in a way that felt direct but left space for something to linger. My words moved between personal reflection and broader questions about perception and control. I read from a pink notebook, my voice amplified by a small speaker microphone. I played with pacing—holding pauses, making direct eye contact, stretching moments just enough to create discomfort. I wanted the audience to not just hear the words, but to feel them sit in the room.
Movement was shaped by this same tension. I began lying on the floor, my sequin ON/OFF button set to OFF, waiting for someone to "activate" me. My first movements were stiff, mechanical. As I moved through the space, I let gestures shift between exaggerated theatricality and small, hesitant motions—blurring the line between playfulness and sincerity. I wove through the audience, stopping, observing them as much as they observed me. The body, the clothes, the presence—all became part of the negotiation.
The setting amplified everything. I only saw the space for the first time on the day of the performance—an ordinary school, structured, neutral, functional. And then there was me, dressed as a clown, moving through it. The contrast became part of the piece. Was this a joke? Was it serious? Did it belong? These questions shaped the way I carried the performance, how I shifted between control and uncertainty.
And then came the final question: When does a performance end? I lay on the table, the audience clapped, but I didn’t move. They hesitated. Then, I began undressing, folding and arranging each piece of clothing. Another round of applause, but I still didn’t leave. I stepped out, leaving the outfit behind, carefully placed. The audience wasn’t sure—was it over? Was something still happening? The moment stretched. That uncertainty became the real ending—the one that never fully arrived.
Because being seen is part of the deal.
Do you like what you see?
Sometimes I wonder— do these clothes protect me, or strip me bare?
Do they make me visible, or help me disappear?
I’m here because I want to be. No—because I’m paid to be, right?
What I wear knows where I’ve been. Maybe even where I’m going.
It moves when I move. It listens. It remembers. We’re bound to each other.
I wear this (self-made, by the way). I could’ve worn something else.
But I chose this.
Maybe it holds me together. Maybe it’s the thing that won’t let go.
Maybe it pulls me backward. Maybe it dares me forward.
Maybe it tears at me —just enough to stay intact.
Maybe it’s just fabric. A skin I’ve borrowed. A mask. A costume.
And you— what are you wearing today? Does it fit? Does it hide you well?
Are playing well? Do you wear it— or does it wear you?
I’m here so you can look. See me. Read me. Think you understand.
This body, right now, belongs to the room.
Your eyes. My questions. Our projections.
Go on—do what you want.
I can perform myself— but only within the limits I carry, you expect,
we pretend not to notice. This body doesn’t quite belong.
I wear it like you wear yours. Or maybe you wear it like I wear mine.
Or maybe we all wear it the same.
When I look at myself, I wonder— will this ever feel like mine?
What’s it like, to live in your body like it’s home?
To shift shapes without explanation?
To exist in between versions?
To carry all of them at once?
Hi. I’m here. Look at me. Look.
Do you also feel like you’re splitting at the seams?
Maybe I could take it off. And then? Would it lie there, useless?
Or suddenly be worth something— because you saw it?
Maybe I’m worth more now too. Maybe I should take it off. Should I?»