The body, like a blank page, exists between two states: that of waiting and that of transformation. It is not yet a written body, not yet a fixed story. It is a blank surface, a palimpsest, where the marks left by the outside world overlap without ever completely merging. This female body, oscillating between the gestures of ordinary life and the marks imposed by a society that shapes it, is suspended in this precise moment: a moment where it seeks to speak before writing encircles it.
In this project, I wondered what the prelude to The Coming to Writing would have been, before the body, according to Cixous, coming to writing: what lies hidden in the shadow of this primordial gesture where the body is about to speak before language inhabits it? It is this passage, this suspended breath, that interests me. The writing of the body is not yet here, it seeks, hesitates, hides, and reveals itself all at once.
The image of the body—veiling, violence, embellishment, degradation—becomes a gesture in itself, an act suspended between what is said and what will never be said. The body is not a text to be deciphered, but a surface that resists attempts to define it. The voice that accompanies it, soft, almost absurd, reveals nothing more than a string of words floating aimlessly. It grabs attention but explains nothing. It is like a word lost in the air, an echo that leaves us in uncertainty, much like these gestures that have yet to gain meaning. A sort of endless repetition that questions us but does not provide an answer.
At every stage of my life, I’ve seen my own body stolen and then given back by beliefs, cultures, and systems. There’s always been this floating feeling: between who I am, what is expected of me, and what I could become. This project arises from the desire to explore this “body of origin,” before words, categories, or too-tight narratives fix it. It’s not about finding a truth, but opening a crack, exploring what remains to be said before societal writing takes control of this body. It’s an opening, a gesture before writing, an invitation to feel before understanding.
“About” is not an answer, but a question. A question that arises from this silence, this suspended gesture, this waiting. The work has no conclusion, it simply unfolds in space, like a body that still hesitates to write itself. And perhaps, in this hesitation, lies the space where the truth of the body hides before it is interpreted, analyzed, or reduced to a role. The body, in the end, is neither the one it is imposed to be nor the one it is desired to be. It is what remains before anything is said.
French Bellow