Ich löse Dinge nicht so, wie man sie mir vorgibt. Ich stosse mich an Normen, ecke an und stelle die Scherben dann nebeneinander in den Raum.

I’m a heated and sensitive person who creates. Whether it may be dance, music, text, performance, drag or a combination of all of those, my work is guided by the idea of collecting, compiling and patchworking references.

This patchworking starts with my name that came from a play on words between hausfrau (housewife in German) and vrau (a Brazilian expression used in moments of joyful surprise and celebration, which can also implicate a sexual act). HAUSVRAU is how I explore and express my latinidade, femininity and cosmopolitanism.

Those explorations and expressions tend to be about personal questions of identity, biographical experiences or attempts at designing a new and utopian self. They can also be about love and care, about belonging and creating spaces for marginalized communities. HAUSVRAU is the hostess of ephemeral spaces of exchange between bodies, on the dancefloor or in the artist public relationship.

My work is a love letter to the matriarchal lineage of my bloodline, to my queer ancestry, to my queer peers and to my young self. My art is the product of my being.

The work of Jérémy Chevalier combines performance, sound art, and installation. His practice often explores questions of stage presence and the spectacular, drawing on inventions shaped by handmade techniques and the repurposing of objects. His interest in DIY culture and fascination with science gradually led him to question technology, and more specifically the way it shapes our perceptions, narratives, and gestures. These themes are always approached with humor, critical distance, and a sense of detachment.

Dans une forme de poésie phonétique où les s(o)(e)ns se superposent, Faire un (en deux mots) est une volonté (ou une promesse ?) d’authenticité. À la suite d’une recherche entre céramique et poésie, j’ai (et oui on va pas se leurrer c’est moi-même qui écris ce paragraphe, alors pourquoi je l’écrirais à la 3ème personne ?) réfléchi au lien entre les sons et les formes, entre ce que c’est d’être une terre modelable et une femme.

Une cruche.
Remplie de vide et de plein.
Ça veut dire quoi « être en forme » ?
Avec une bonne couche de rage et de vécu, de dissociation entre la tête et les mains, mais aussi avec du jeu et de l’espoir, je me suis amusée avec les mots et les différentes possibilités linguistiques que les lèvres ( ) permettent.

Her practice explores questions of memory, identity, and cultural transmission, examining how personal and collective identities are embodied, carried, and reshaped over time. Having grown up immersed in Andean culture through traditional Peruvian dance, she has developed a keen awareness of how heritage is experienced, performed, and passed on. Her creative process brings together image, sound, movement, and spatial elements to create new personal narratives and visual translations of thoughts, memories, and emotions. Her master’s research focuses on “Llaky”, a Quechua word used to describe an emotional state, a form of melancholy unique to the Andean region. Building on this concept, she explores contemporary forms of collective memory and cultural identity, as well as broader regional issues, such as social structures inherited from colonization.

Aline Fournier is a student living with what is commonly referred to as a disability, facing unsuitable frameworks on a daily basis. As a body and presence evolving in a world of superficial inclusion and silence, she found neither inclusion nor even integration within the educational institution. Differences are treated as an individual’s own responsibility, and they are expected to fund and organise their own accessibility aids.

As an artist she took the radical decision to invent and to legitimise her own rules. Using a process of interdependence, infiltration and exposure, she deconstructs implicit institutional norms.

For this artwork, she employs the mediums of performance, video and writing, as well as the creation of a fictional national advertising campaign that reveals the fragility of the mechanisms underpinning superficial inclusion. She uses humour, grotesque, and absurdity to further expose the limitations of integration and inclusion within institutions.

My work solves nothing. It doesn’t even try. Here’s the thing: I grew up impossible. I never understood the world around me, nor why I couldn’t understand it. Often, I was declared twisted, not quite fit for purpose, and I tried, tried, tried to contain myself, to conform, to stay calm, to stick to the plan.

Unfortunately, I forgot to take my meds and to listen properly in church: all the voices inside started taking up more space, one by one or all at once, and it became a mess. An intense, immense mess, a chaos worthy of my childhood room, birthing wild inventions with Legos spread across the floor.

Of course, I tried not to listen, tried not to answer the call because I knew it was too heavy for my tiny shoulders, but it was futile. So, rather than let myself be crushed, I dove into the chaos, and since then, I’ve been trying to accept it and to give birth to new wild inventions (with words: they float more than bricks, and they aren’t made by some big capitalist corporation, lol).

My poetry was born from this: from the panic of facing the chaos and all the possibilities it offers. From the panic of seeing oneself constantly changing, of standing on the world’s thresholds, between exhaustion and the urge to act, between revolution and the nap, between the need for solitude and the need for community. My language itself sits at the crossroads: a mix of imprecations, internet slang, mythological references, video game quotes, Swiss-isms, and a few sentence structures all my own.

At the end of the day, the situation is simple: I’m tired, I’m radiant, but I’ve stopped waiting for the festivities to begin: I’ve put my hands right into the mess, and I’ve started organizing the party.

My work explores the forms a text can take when it leaves the page to encounter other media and other people. Writing then becomes reading, theatre, performance, video, collective games, sound poetry, or other unidentified literary objects.

I see writing as a deeply relational practice. Individual and collective writing are not opposed; they nourish one another. Writing alone allows me to delve into an intimate concern, while writing with others opens up gaps, shifts habits, and produces unexpected forms. The collective introduces disorder, listening, and surprise – elements that are essential to my practice.

Hajime works as a bicycle messenger, which explains his focus on the urban environment. Drawing on his experience of public spaces, he has begun to develop an artistic practice centered on the dynamics of cities, seeking to capture and convey their energy.

He works with both existing spaces and objects, employing printmaking, drawing, painting, video, sculpture, and even performance as part of his installations.

Hajime appropriates and reinterprets the objects and their connotations that surround him. His work suggests an alternative to the common system of the art world that he loves to reinterpret through a satiric gaze.

Loris Humeau develops an artistic practice in which text unfolds to be read and seen. Somewhere between painting, drawing, and writing, his works transform words into visual objects, capable of conjuring up images, sounds, and narratives. The exhibition space becomes a reading space, where the story interacts with the architecture and the imagination of the viewers.

The stories he tells are fragmented, composed of descriptions, and revolve around themes of escape. They explore suspense and anticipation. Sometimes, nothing happens, and in this state of waiting, tension emerges. He develops an off-screen writing style, where narration creates a sense of elsewhere. Voices compete and rhythms interact.

His textual works often have multiple entry points. One can enter the story from any side, its logic shifting according to the choices of the viewers. The absence of linearity or traditional narrative structure allows for reading from the middle, moving against conventional storytelling frameworks, and defining the reading experience as a continuous digression.

Today, Loris applies these same principles to his literary practice. His debut novel, Europaplatz, is a work of speculative fiction set in Bern that blends supernatural themes with a broader reflection on social dynamics.

My practice explores the relationship between perception, representation and technological mediation under postdigital conditions. Through expanded painting, I examine how images, materials and spatial situations shape the way reality is perceived and experienced. Landscapes are used as a tactic of non-composition, treating them as fields through which atmosphere, orientation and spatial tension emerge. The works are produced through advanced manufacturing, including CNC milling, digital scanning, AI and data management, which materialise the relationship between physical form and digital mediation.

I approach representation as an active process that shapes perception in relation to a situated environment. The resulting works occupy a space between image, object and environment, where representation becomes a material and spatial operation activated through the viewer’s encounter with the work.

Ich beginne im Ma. Zwischenraum, in dem wir sein können. Die Form, die in der Distanz zwischen uns entsteht. Verschmolzen mit den Objekten werde ich eine Hexe, die mit ihren Tentakeln Obertöne braut. Bin ich Stimme, die durchs Kabel in Instrumentenkörper fliesst. Ringen Metallrohr und ich, werden warm miteinander, bis wir eins werden. Ich grabe in der Erde, im Erdspalt: Grieta. Tief, tief, tief. Mich bewegen und hineindehnen in, was kommt. Dem Ruf des Unbewussten folgen und in Trance tauchen. Ich widerstehe und blockiere, bewege mich, lasse mich fallen und ritualisiere. Fliessen, auseinanderfliessen, überströmen. Schwingungen werden zu Rhythmus. Obertöne leiten das Spiel. Sie sind das magische, unvorhersehbare Gebräu. Es treten Melodien hervor, weben und verstricken sich. Sie singen die Instrumente. Alle Klänge fliessen zusammen und treffen sich im Körper der Instrumente. Du sitzt in der Mitte. Klänge umgeben dich von allen Seiten.

Anastácia Kazmina’s practice approaches textiles as a means of reflecting on space, memory, and bodily presence. Through processes of repetition and suspension, materials such as thread and fabric are explored for their capacity to hold tension, malleability, and resilience simultaneously. The structures of textiles embedded within everyday life are further considered as ways of understanding not only material processes, but also forms of abstraction.

Particular attention is given to forms of labour historically associated with the domestic, and to the ways these continue to shape contemporary experiences of living and inhabiting space. Rather than understood as fixed or archival, memory emerges as something continually reworked through gesture, care, and transformation. Through their close relationship to the body and daily life, textiles become instruments where personal and collective histories intersect.

Ma pratique s’appuie sur des matières et des récits qui résistent à la stabilisation. Le verre, les odeurs, les plantes dites « invasives » ou encore des présences dont les récits restent partiels ou instables deviennent des points d’entrée pour interroger les logiques de classement, les rapports de pouvoir et les mécanismes qui rendent certaines histoires visibles, tandis que d’autres sont effacées, simplifiées ou figées.

Je m’intéresse aux récits situés en périphérie, qu’ils soient scientifiques, oubliés ou réinterprétés, et à la manière dont ils sont souvent filtrés par des lectures orientalistes ou réduits à des catégories culturelles et raciales fixes.

Une attention particulière est portée à ce qui déborde, à ce qui est perçu comme en trop, hors cadre ou illisible. Ces éléments, souvent écartés, deviennent ici des zones actives de tension et de production de sens.

Dans un contexte institutionnel où la notion de diversité reste fréquemment décorative ou contrôlée, l’enjeu ne réside pas dans la représentation mais dans la prise de place. Le travail cherche à ouvrir des espaces où des récits, des formes et des savoirs peuvent exister sans être traduits, expliqués ou rendus acceptables.

Je m’appuie notamment sur la notion d’opacité développée par Édouard Glissant ainsi que sur Rester barbare de Louisa Yousfi. Il ne s’agit pas de se rendre lisible ou conforme pour être légitime, mais de maintenir des zones de non-traduction, où les différences ne sont pas lissées mais reconnues comme des forces.

Tender Violences: On Structures of Care

In their diploma work Tender Violences, Maksim Klopfstein investigates the unstable boundary between care and violence within medical, psychiatric and social structures. Guided by the question “Where does care end and violence begin?”, the work examines situations in which protection, treatment and harm coexist and become indistinguishable from one another.

Working primarily through graphite drawing, sculptural framing and material-based processes, the artist approaches drawing as a surgical and forensic act. Graphite penetrates the paper like a medical procedure entering the body or a psychological intervention affecting the mind, while layers of latex, plastic, medical materials and hand-worked surfaces aim to evoke associations with skin, restraint, protection and vulnerability simultaneously.

The works move between tenderness and intrusion, precision and fragmentation, intimacy and institutional control.

Drawing from personal experiences with illness, dissociation and psychiatric systems, the work explores how psychological states such as paranoia, emotional distress and perceptual instability can be materialised. The assimilation of multiple works functions as interconnected fragments within a larger “body-like” psychoaesthetic system of symbolic contamination.

Narrative materials, layered systems of references and recurring motifs continuously shift, communicate, contradict and support one another.

Rather than offering clear resolutions, Tender Violences insists on complexity, questioning how bodies and psyches are framed, treated, protected and disciplined within contemporary structures of care.

Joanna Yulia Kluge wrote a novel about human dignity, motherhood, and the silencing of the self.

Wäre ich nicht Künstlerin geworden, wäre ich vielleicht Metzgerin. Mich interessiert der Körper als Material, als Träger von Geschichte und als Ort, an dem sich persönliche Erfahrungen mit kollektiven Erzählungen verschränken. Dabei geht es mir um Migration und Erinnerung sowie um die Frage, wie Machtstrukturen, Rollenverteilungen und Klasse unsere Identität, Zugehörigkeit und Sichtbarkeit prägen.

In meinen Performances arbeite ich mit einem wachsenden Archiv aus Zitaten von Autor*innen der Diaspora, eigenen Textfragmenten, Liedtexten aus dem Turbofolk des ehemaligen Jugoslawien sowie Alltagsobjekten. Ich sammle dieses Material aus verschiedenen Kontexten und lasse es offen aufeinandertreffen, um Reibungen zu erzeugen und Unerwartetes sichtbar zu machen.

Meine Arbeitsweise ist fragmentarisch und prozesshaft. Bedeutung entsteht nicht durch lineare Erzählung, sondern im Zusammenspiel von Körper, Raum, Text und Objekt. Sprache ist dabei nicht Werkzeug, sondern Material. Etwas, das sich verschiebt, widerspricht und Bedeutungen freilegt.

Pendant ce festival d’art contemporain, je vous présente mon premier roman Colette, mon concert Rocheuses et vous invite à un atelier d’écriture créative.

Colette : La voix de ce livre est née d’un moment d’amour et de peine entremêlées, c’est l’histoire d’Ambre, c’est l’histoire de Colette, c’est l’histoire de la sensibilité d’Ambre et d’une Colette qu’on aimerait mieux connaître, c’est l’histoire de mémoires et de rencontres.

Atelier : Je serai enchantée de vous accueillir en atelier pendant lequel je vous guiderai dans l’exploration de votre geste d’écriture avec des points de départ simples et accessibles, l’objectif étant d’apprendre quelque chose et de s’amuser.

Rocheuses : Le concert Rocheuses monte sur scène avec Timothée aux synthétiseurs et moi-même au piano et à la flûte traversière, ensemble on a parcouru les falaises, on a ramassé des galets, on a composé de la musique en intégrant des enregistrements de lieux dont il fait bon se souvenir, pratique que l’on appelle couramment field recording.

Outsider amidst the crowd, spectator with a limited view, a positioned perspective.

The chorus, trapped between gazing eyes, finds moments of connection, strength and togetherness. īrıs, meanders – once ensnared, once entangling – to deliver the message.

Gioúria [γιούρια] !

Écrivaine et Photographe

LES MOTS ONT DES YEUX (2026)

Les Mots ont des Yeux est un roman qui explore la construction de l’enfance. Une immersion dans les méandres de l’identité et de la transmission familiale. Ce roman dresse le portrait d’une enfant : la Gosse, enfant d’une famille en constellation. La Gosse est l’enfant de tout le monde et de personne – à la fois aimée, abandonnée, niée, et récupérée. La Gosse à la langue bien pendue et un cœur fendu. Un petit bout d’humain déglingué, trop lucide pour son âge. La Gosse, c’est personne et tout le monde à la fois : la Fée des bois, la Tronche de cake, la Pute – une enfant caméléon, moulée par les projections des adultes.

À travers une écriture fragmentée et en polyphonique où le réel et l’imaginaire s’entrelacent – ce roman questionne les filiations familiales, le poids des non-dits et la manière dont les enfants interprètent, reconstruisent et réécrivent leur propre histoire. Les Mots ont des Yeux c'est l'histoire d'un bébé qui ronge des os sous les bombardements allemands, d'une Italienne qui n'aime pas les pâtes, d'une Fille légère et d'une Gosse qui a peur de voir ses seins tomber comme ceux de sa mère.

La structure fragmentée du récit oscille entre réalisme cru et envolées absurdes. L’écriture et la mise en page déconstruit le temps et la mémoire, entremêlant souvenirs, perceptions déformées et reconstructions intérieures. Au fil du récit, on comprend que la Gosse, c’est la narratrice elle-même. L’originalité réside d’ailleurs dans ce rapport en points de vue éclatés, où le « elle » glisse progressivement vers le « je », voire parfois vers le « nous » ou le « on », marquant une forme de reconnexion, ou tout du moins, une tentative de réappropriation de soi. Dans ce dédoublement volontaire, la narratrice interroge sa propre légitimité à se dire, à se souvenir, à appartenir. Il y a un décalage, un flottement entre l’enfant qu’elle fut et l’adulte qu’elle est, comme si ces deux identités co-existaient, mais n’étaient pas entièrement réconciliées. La Gosse devient une figure à part entière, un double littéraire, s’alliant à la narratrice dans son écriture.

Through sonic and textual fragments, he creates spatial interventions that move between background and attention. His work explores sound as infrastructure, and a subtle form of control, particularly within ordinary and transitional spaces, currently focusing on elevators.

Fabian Oderbolz wrote a novel about human defeat. It features many characters as well as an apple tree, a bomb, a balloon, and a party.

Her central engagement with forms and formats takes shape as longer prose pieces, publications, lectures, performances, theatre pieces, essays and exhibitions. She is particularly interested in the poetic and political dimensions of remembering and forgetting, the condensation of narratives, and the periphery of the gaze. In her writing, she currently explores themes of colonial history, material and immaterial heritage, and the silences within families connected to these legacies. A recurring movement in her work is that of transformation: as possibility, as experimental arrangement, as narrative principle, or in the context of the figure of the witch and the tiger.

My writing is an in-between. A lingering in otherness. A dwelling within language. It is about visibility and finding ways to express the inexpressible, to foster an understanding of different realities. Language is a powerful tool. It connects people. That is why so many fear it. Writing is about overcoming fear. My writing is both an indictment and a reconciliation. In the end, love remains.

About the novel: The first person narrator travels to her dying grandfather, Dziadek. Fragmented memories show her growing up between Austria and Poland. Dziadek tells her fairy tales that reveal a family history full of war and wonder, love and loss. When Dziadek dies in his beloved, snow-covered town near the Carpathian Mountains, questions remain. What keeps a family together? Where is the cruelty of the absent Matka coming from? The novel is about realities and cultures, haunted by uprootedness and violence.

Je marche est un texte dans lequel un narrateur marche dans la rue. Ça parle d’aller en avant et de revenir en arrière. Ça essaie de répondre à la question de savoir s’il faut tourner à droite ou à gauche.

I write about violence. Not about the spectacle, but about what remains when it is over: the silence, the speechlessness, the aftershock in the body. These tremors I translate into language – to create visibility for bodies affected by violence. I am interested in how patriarchal and structural violence lodges itself in language, how it lives on in gestures, conversations, relationships – and how we ourselves, often unconsciously, become part of it.

My texts emerge in the tension between reality and repression. I work with fragments, voices, overlays. Humor and bitterness are not opposites for me, but two sides of the same wound. A text can begin harmlessly, almost banal – and then tip, into the unspeakable.

Theatre, radio, and performance are spaces for me in which language is allowed to stretch, where the act of speaking itself becomes a body. I believe writing is a form of witnessing – not a report, but a repetition with a different intention. In my work I circle the unsayable by touch, until language is allowed to open again.

His practice combines various assemblages of building elements, furniture features, and visual imagery from panoramic landscapes and skylines. Their recent body of work incorporates a diverse use of materials – wood, ceramics, and monochrome color-pencil drawings – framing fictional vignettes as sculptural drawings. He collages their archival references – historical catalogs, films, paintings, and ornamental details – exterior and interior – as fragmented reflections in the absence of fidelity. The level of detail mediates the connection between the physical world and our subjective experience. Recreating the past allows individuals to indulge in the sensory pleasures of reliving both interior and urban experiences; perhaps this act of consumption reflects an infatuation that provides a means to encounter the sublime, while everything else in our peripheral vision seems mundane.

Dans Sans faire de vagues, Lou van Nijen explore le passage à l’âge adulte à travers le prisme d’une adolescente franco-américaine, tout en proposant une vision critique d’une société totalitaire en pleine crise climatique, située dans un futur proche. Le roman explore les thématiques des troubles alimentaires, de la violence systémique et du déni sans pour autant les nommer, afin de dénoncer l’impact dévastateur du patriarcat sur les individus et la Nature, ainsi que l’importance de la sororité pour créer une réalité alternative centrée sur le respect du vivant.

Ruines Lausannoises
À Lausanne comme ailleurs, les traces de l'histoire s'accumulent sans cesse, formant un empilement infini de ruines. De l'érosion des roches sédimentaires aux ruines imaginaires du Tribunal fédéral, c'est à travers ses débris que la ville se révèle. Le présent n'existe pas; il est coincé entre les vestiges archéologiques et la promesse des ruines à venir.