INSTALLATION VIDEO PERFORMANCE
Palindrome unfolds as a sequence of reversible acts, where installation, video, and performance converge to expose the symmetry between presence and absence. First presented in Provence in 2014, the project inhabits both gallery interiors and outdoor sites, recombining objects, bodies and light into patterns that read forward and backward. Like the linguistic figure it borrows its name from, the work insists on reflection and return, testing how meaning persists when inverted. In the gallery, the arrangement of minimal elements—chairs, geometric marks, projected light—creates a spatial script in which the performer becomes both subject and punctuation. Each gesture is mirrored, echoed, or undone, building a rhythm of hesitation rather than progress. Outside, in the streets of Provence, the installation migrates: a solitary chair positioned between bollards becomes a stage for shadow and symmetry, as if the city itself were caught in a palindrome of stasis and repetition. The banality of the object gains symbolic weight precisely through this doubling, transforming ordinary furniture into a hinge between narrative and silence. What emerges is a socioplastic experiment, where viewers are drawn into a choreography of reversibility. Movement is never linear; it returns to its starting point, questioning the myth of progress embedded in urban space and art alike. Instead of proposing a definitive image, the work cultivates oscillation, inviting the public to inhabit ambiguity. In this sense, Palindrome functions as both mirror and trap: it shows the possibility of reflection but denies closure. The insistence on reversible structures is not only formal but political. By suspending progression, Palindrome resists the forward drive of consumption and spectacle, allowing a slower temporality where repetition becomes an act of critique. The piece demonstrates that art can operate as a reversible surface—one that returns the gaze, folds the narrative, and unsettles the linearity of experience.
