The nostalgically oppressive silence of a summer day. The saturated green of dancing treetops and the dull murmur of monotonously passing cars. A young man returning home. The low-resolution camera feels its way through rooms and hallways, accompanying the one who walks through them. A cigarette, a bath. The opening of the window as a common custom to let the soul of a recently deceased escape. Then the free fall. And the weightlessness. The film seems to repeat itself, but instead of a human being, a floating balloon shark now animates the place. Remotely controlled from off-screen. In some cultures, the shark is considered a messenger of spirits of the dead. Possibly the embodied rebirth of a deceased? Possibly just a person, a shark and an apartment.

“His Apartment” was made during a time that we mostly spent at home. So there was this apartment where I lived and where he also lived. There were its corridors, its walls, windows and doors. There was its light. The longer I inhabited it, the clearer it became to me: it itself dwells without any knowledge of past or future. Everything in it is captured in monolithic presence. A state of permanent transit. In it, inside turned into outside, private into public, people into animals, and matter into spirit. So there was this apartment. In it, a person and a shark. And a camera.