It was supposed to be a romantic weekend. An escape. Something spontaneous, slightly trashy and a little sexy, with linen sheets, curated playlists and most certainly a joint in bed after sex. A motel room with a view. A break from their phones, their own cynicism and relentless anxieties of the world outside.

What the hell was yesterday all about? Did we even have a conversation? She asked herself while her head was still hammering, courtesy of the previous night’s enthusiastic self-sabotage.

The room was warm and slightly funky smelling, furnished in full modernist taste, glass, concrete, retro mirrors - minimalist gestures and curated charm. There was even a copy of Learning from Las Vegas on the desk, not for reading, obviously, just for the vibe.

She was stretched across the designer bed, half-naked, her phone rested in hand, scrolling aimlessly. She couldn’t stop looking at the photo she’d taken earlier: her own body, barely posed, lit by morning light. Body only, no face. Could’ve been her. Could’ve been anyone.

While looking at herself in the mirror, her eye caught the white cowboy shirt that looked like it might fall at any second. Technically his though she’d been wearing it since Friday night. It made her feel like she was the main character of Broke Back Mountain but lesbian 21^st century version.

Her black T-shirt with the car crash print hung off the low leather design chair. It was her absolute favourite item. Shed had it since she was a teenager. Not Prada, not Magliano but a simple t-shirt bought for 5 bucks at a second hand shop back in the days. She had always obsessed over that shirt because it somehow made her think of her past.

A car crash had really happened. She was twelve years old - a pounding sound of metal being crushed, blood spatter glimpses, dazzling lights coming from every side, and two weeks later, her period arrived like an aftershock. A rite of passage she never shared with anyone. Not until last night. Maybe not even then. Had she said it out loud, or just thought she had?

The laptop on the floor glowed with a paused YouTube tutorial — something about star signs or tax deductions, hard to say. The paravento in the corner was mesmerizing and completely out of sync with the rest of the furniture – a constellation of medieval interpretations of suns and moons were scattered in a post apocalyptic landscape. Somehow reminder her of the scenario outside the window. One of the moons looked weirdly like her. Not metaphorically. Quite literally.

There was no romance. Just a leftover burger and fries, last year’s Charli XCX summer hit playing from the tiny speaker they’d brought to “set the mood,” and that special kind of grogginess that follows trying too hard. Gurllll, it’s so confusing sometimes to be a girl-girl, girl, girl, she sang to herself, the song now lame but weirdly appropriate. A-men, she added mentally, secretly peeking at him with her left eye while he slept, mouth slightly open like a baby or a drunk saint. Maybe, after all romance is a place?

And still, there was a kind of intimacy. Not the sexy kind, but the kind that leaks out between moments. Between the wrinkled gilet on the bed and the unbrushed teeth.

Outside, the view was the city pretending to be something else. She thought of that David Lynch scene from Inland Empire where Laura Dern is being interviewed. As a backdrop there is a image of LA burning but its not the real city. It’s a picture of the city. And that was exactly it. A backdrop with no plot.

She picked up her phone again and in a semi-subconscious way posted the photo. Captioned it:

What the hell, yesterday was all about?

Then locked the screen and stared at the ceiling.

She closed her eyes and thought, I couldn’t help but wonder… Was this what intimacy looked like now? A curated mess? A loop with good lighting?

The sun shifted through the big window. The paravento threw its shadows against the wall like it was trying to divide the room into before and after, but forgot which was which.

And maybe that’s when it started. Or maybe that’s when it ended. Or maybe — like everything else in this city — it just kept pretending to be something it wasn’t.

—

This text by curator Joel Valabrega accompanies the second installment of Hauser & Wirth Invite(s) in Zurich, featuring artist Romane de Watteville, in collaboration with her gallery Ciaccia Levi. Hauser & Wirth Invite(s) is an initiative to host fellow artists, galleries and writers at the Hauser & Wirth gallery spaces, offering wider visibility of their work and ideas and to engage with Zurich's vibrant creative community.

On view through 1 November, the presentation continues the spirit of Invite(s) by creating an open framework for exchange, experimentation and visibility within Hauser & Wirth’s Zurich location.