I can never remember my passport number – no matter how many times in a row I need to write it down. Reaching for my backpack, zzzzzip* opendoen. There it is, flip page, find number, type it in.

When people ask me why I live in the Netherlands I always tell them it’s because I love Dutch bureaucracy. Lips turn up in a sly smile as I fill out paper documents from my home country. Done, stamp, put it in the envelope, ouch!

Finger to mouth, salty brine. Papercut straight across the thumb. White paper, black text, red stain. Cutting into the imprints of my identity – that pink identity in blue ink pressed against the beige paper of police files stored away in another continent. Straight across, cutting through who I really am.

Photograph. Eyes closed. Try again.

This exhibition is about time, the impossibility of rest in an age in which tasks pile up endlessly. It’s about maintenance – time means you need to attend to things on a monthly/weekly/daily basis. How is this doubled, tripled,…