PHARMAKON. Dernière conversation dans l'écume de tes commissures
Ov (FR)
PHARMAKON. Dernière conversation dans l'écume de tes commissures

Pharmakon is the remedy, or the poison.

Every opening day, at a certain time, a Last Conversation in the Foam at the Corners of Your Lips begins, a gestating cycle that you are invited to enter. In the creature’s damp lair, an inert form diffuses a dangerous conversation. From one awakening to the next, a detached entity insatiably goes hunting. The environment seems to form a layer of protection that it is difficult to transgress, yet lets out a few groans of stifled lives. The global body becomes cancerous and oozes liquid.

After these moments wrested from the nothingness that you resist, in the refuges of the breaches that you desire, there can be no more going back; it is too late to stay calm. That is what such an operation implies. There is a moment when you believe in each person’s importance, there is a monument when you have to wield the knives; this is the first step outside the circle. Which is necessary when the world is off its axis.

Praise in the flesh of the age that raises the midnight sun.

Praise in the margins.


Let’s dance before we are spotted.

Let’s dance before we are torn apart.

Ov France
Promotion André S. Labarthe

Ov emerges from moist and fertile zones under the scar on the lower belly. Ov sleeps, fights eats, takes care, parties, conspires, persists, debates, constructs, gets ready for attack. With an electrical impulse, a necessarily chaotic and certainly attentive vital movement, Ov suddenly forces open the door of an unstable time and is embodied in a few marginal sensory worlds, dangerously subject to anaemic and voracious landslides. In a muted desire hidden in the depths of the bones, boiling waters of these countercurrents peopled by furtive shadows whose complicities and passions seep from the flesh, Ov infiltrates the perfidious workings of the deathly monster machine that, since the dawn of time, has been strangulating and crushing with its putrid tongue. It is then that under the cloak of lead, at the hour of bloody events, Ov emerges in the cage and violently sings, echoing shattered faces, a battle language woven from magical figures, liberating a spray on the contours of the puddle of diesel to be immolated. Enough to keep you blushing until dawn, Ov triggers the backwards rhythm of poison that is already coagulating in your dreams and in your guts. In the tempest, Ov will lose everything, all control will crumble, and will finally disappear. Nothing will be left of Ov. Ov is no one.


transition en cours dans les [ o ]

transition in progress in [ waters/fluids/bones ]

    Production : Le Fresnoy, Studio national des arts contemporains