You happen to be the one reading this. A partial report can only offer you partial access. Like an observation, it stays fragmented, like a piece of thought.

Perception is how our senses interpret and organise data. It’s the ‘’raw material’’ turned into subjectivity, a sensation of a kind. The data that the building held before is filled with the data that Baroeg proposes to it now. It reads into the rooms. The fragments start to signal something quite tangible...a happenstance. You happen to be here. A cable leads to a socket. Air breathes through old holes for thick wiring. A projector, sitting isolated in the space, shoots an image at a 34 degree angle. What is a composition exactly? With moving cable management, cut-out subtitles and situational drawings, Baroeg poeticises the dataistic grid of the building.

So I ask again, what is a composition exactly?
The endless potential compositions of bits and pieces of the environment is in constant debate with the intention of the artist, while these potentialities simultaneously drive his work. It alternates between poetic disruption and experimental formalism.

Surveillance, often seen as a hostile management, here suggests poetry. Between detailed observation and soft-surveillance, Baroeg points out a way to look for the overlooked; sequenced through live-broadcasting, even the subtitles are participatory information cut by the frame in 5-7 word compositions, offering you a fragmented piece of tongue. You talk, the phonetics translate through, into a lip-read choreography.
Baroeg makes a choreographic attempt to capture the presence, and we are both witnessing and participating in it. The interchange amongst strangers, or people you know, becomes a readable act. With broadcasting and fragmenting, Partial Coverage builds a rotating narrative. Now, you’re the editor, the ‘’final cut’’ is up to you.
A full coverage can never really be achieved. We move between frustration and satisfaction of not able to view everything all at once. A partial coverage takes shape.



A whirring hum starts to sound like a piece of conversation.

If you put together enough corners, it might come out as a square. If you put together enough squares, you might end up with a building. If you put together enough buildings, you will enter a city.

If the city is a stage, we are all actors. My role within the set changes every minute, and even when I’m leaving the stage, I hear the whisper from the prompter. Whereas the city feels sudden, predictable, the other feels slow, unpredictable.

I proceed carefully, the beams are not yet screwed in.


Architecture is control. Home is control. We act with control in places we seek for ease. The amount of defining elements shifts from plural to hard-to-count. Some things we don’t even try to count; it’s not important. By trying to measure and standardise everything, we risk meaning.
  While the interior attracts notions of belonging - the outer attracts notions of wanting to belong. A metropolitan attitude hugs standardisation and kills authenticity. And between form and perception, a fleeting thought of a possible settlement always crops up. I’m stuck between documentation and scenography.

1st corner.   There are none. The posed lessness of an interior reads     

                    Kant in a lounge chair.      

                    No one listens.

2nd corner.  There are some. You describe a feeling of chumminess.

3rd corner.   A framework is set, yet unsure. Doubt comes from a place of trust.

A house is a cast of potential. A church is a cast of a belief system. A theatre-set is a cast of an act. A building is a cast of a house. A house is a cast of a home.
A staged reality is always a staged reality. You tear it down and build it back up, just to see if it is worth measuring again.  Architecture and governance can only try to interpret something that lives inside of it, eats its guts.

No one counts corners actively, except me. 

Drawing is like running. You fasten your shoelaces, a thin chip falls off from the plastic-covered end of the cotton lace. A piece similar to it is a chip from a pencil you unconsciously bite.
A kid eats laces as well as the end of a pen. This is universal, common. Everyone has done it. Draw a circle, run a mile. Run a circle, draw a smile.

You either had Stabilos or ProMarkers. A Staedtler Noris or BIC Ballpoint. Either Adidas Superstars or Air Forces of some kind. Maybe a knock-off. Maybe none of the above. The fact is, it's not the shoes that measure how far you can run. You’re more dependent on the environment you’re in rather than the gear you wear.
    A common practice is simple. Feet eat their way on desire paths. Lead eats its way on pages. A tempo dictates a pace. So do ideas. Repetition darkens the line of work of each individual. A desire path appears.
   There is no bandit on the race. Routes give us pace. We pace through. If a drawing starts with a line, it can end as a circle. If a run starts with a step, it can just as well end as a walk. If a piano scale starts with a C, it might as well end there. Often nature draws an intention before us. A wet, unreadable page covered in blue ink from BIC Cristal.

In drawing we communicate with a hand, in running, with feet. Sometimes the other way around. Sometimes someone does it for us. A coach draws a plan of the game on a map. We all perform. A common place now is to start something. A mark on a paper. First step out of the door.

Paper is made from processed wood, right? Then a wall — made from wood and other particles — is, in a way, already part paper. One holds up a space, the other holds a thought. Sometimes, they do both.

A wall can be heavy. Or ultra-light. It can hold, collapse, pin things down. Paper is where ideas land — quickly, quietly. Where we jot things down, pin them up, fold them into shapes, send them to someone. A surface where ideas land, briefly or for good.

A paper trail.
A not-so-soundproof wall - hearing a neighbour.
Paint stains peeling.
A rent reminder being sent.
A paper plane nosediving.
A letter written long ago.
A stamp. An envelope.
A thick wall. An airway.
An archive. A colour. A memory.

**clicks send**

Noise always sneaks through a wall.
If information is noise and paper is the platform — then what is a wall, really?

The substance is not always consistent, the walls not heavy. Set in a former city archive, a place to hold information - What was once perhaps stored in the back of a mind, is now materialised in space.

And what can’t pass through a door, sometimes slips through a wall.