Endometriosis cells on microscope blades bought on Ebay, Security guard flashlight, Lens, Aluminum sculptures forged by hand, Wintergreen flavoured candies, Rocks, Laboratory boiling flask from the 1950s, Reused greenhouse plastic

As heiresses to those whose endometrial cells tumble, we travel through the mountain range, every century or so.

Very young, we learn to fear crossing gullies, narrow channels where mountains meet. On peaks, loose rocks are trapped in ice, in glaciers. But at the start of every day, the sun rays melt some of that ice and release pieces of rock to tumble down gullies. As they roll, they gain astonishing amounts of speed, and by the time they reach our altitude, even tiny fragments can kill. And so, we always cross gullies in the cold darkness before sunrise.

(...)

Between the centuries, whilst we do not travel, we remain at altitudes where trees still grow. A sort of middle ground where the soil is still covered in moss, in wintergreen. As children, we used to pick and chew the leaves almost compulsively: the taste of mint always lingering on our lips.

- Extrait du texte de la performance

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