You can think and think a question, the purpose of waiting, the question of whether there is any purpose, any person meant to appear, but if the person doesn’t come, there is no one and nothing to answer you. It’s dark. You hear a small group of men call to one another in Flemish, see them pass by, their pom-pom heads weighted, a hint of disquieting among them. They’re further away now. Inside Michaël Borremans’s The Constellation – Ten Flemish Actors, 2000.
