When we enter in FC’s bunker, we penetrate a half-intimate half-public territory, in which fictions, memories and fantasies shuffle: « her home is nothing else than herself. »
Symbol of the post-apocalyptic safe haven, the bunker shelters a raw intimacy. The artist reveals here the ongoing tensions arising in our identity building; torn between affirming our individuality and the feeling of belonging to a myriad of clans. This permanent oscillation between our successive allegiances involves a host of possible choices, from reject to unconditional adherence, between which thousands of existing nuances; the culmination of this arbitrage, in fine, results from the contingencies we will be given in order to conciliate our diverse individualities. Those are coming from our communities: couple, family, friendship, profession, social class, as concentric circles forging islets of our identity.
The bunker is a living space: alternately refuge and prison, it crystallize the artist’s memories and dreams as well as the visitor’s, reflecting past and potential instants. As such, it constitues a unique territory, both domestic and public space, becoming a spatial and temporal interstice in which array irony and nostalgia.
The bunker is an islet: in Pantin, in the architecture housing it, into the visitor’s everyday life and the artist’s mind. It is a sparkling and disturbing parenthesis where the artists invents and invites us in the intimate space of the clan, where communities and individualities meet up, collide and coexist. We cannot get out of this concrete memory box the exact same we were, as the stories told in it may echo our own chimeras. Opening our way through the sequins islets as we could wander through remembrance and « clanic » little gaps, we discover a phantasmagoric, domestically and vacation-style furnished urban landscape. Obliged by ephemeral and fragile objects and disturbed by entangled smells and voices that we dont get to distinguish the sources, we follow in our mazing path the images as several clues to stories it is unknown whether they are real or fictional, we ourselves are like islets drifting in this ocean-bunker.
— Flora Fettah