Julia Schouten
looking for love in all the wrong places

On the eve of Valentine’s Day, Julia Schouten (°1992) thinks out loud about looking for love in all the wrong places, be it in the eyes of a stranger or the embrace of an art institution. Her reading is part of an ongoing research project on love and will be in English.

Julia’s practice dwells on the absurdities of wanting to be an artist. She trained as an art historian, a gallery assistant, then a painter. Currently based in Antwerp, she will return to London in the spring.

Looking for love in all the wrong places

It starts with a break.

It starts with the heart and the heart always breaks –

eventually, always will, time and again.

That’s the point –

the point of the heart, the point of the head, the point of the edge that wounds you.

And you know this wound, you have it too.

So uniquely yours but achingly banal.

Nothing to write home about, except you still do.

And voilà, add insult to injury: you’re reduced to cliché.

But whatever, in spite, there’s still more to say.

I’ll show you mine, expose myself for the exposure,

play to the gallery, try to win you over.

I’m here today

to talk about love.

Looking for love

in all the wrong places.

If you smirk, cringe, recoil,

then we understand each other.

But I don’t just mean LOVE,

not sugary sentiment,

rot in your mouth.

Silly fucking word

inadequate container for everything it holds.

Single, ugly, syllable, stretched thin.

Ok, yes, I am single

but that’s not why.

Well, it is why I’m here.

My ex sent me here.

Sent me to you.

To this lofty space, this anatomical theatre.

To spill my guts, for love and art.

For me mostly, I’m here for me.

Of course,

who or what else would I be serving?

Well, there’s the rub:

why does the artist expect love for what she lays bare?

Navel-gazing narcissism is one interpretation.

Ok, let’s see:

I’ll be the object

this body is yours

dissect as you see fit

cut the bullshit, really lacerate,

slice all the way through,

through the breast, through the bone,

dig deep and pass the retractor,

open-heart surgery, look at my matter.

It’s all matter, all material.

The blood, the guts, the gore.

The hollow stretch of days,

jagged and emaciated.

Festering isolation –

blue – green –

off-white – much lighter than white

a touch of flame red.

What colour are my insides?

Wouldn’t they look good on your wall?

Display these abject outpourings,

possess my pathetic corpus.

Give me the honour

of your validation.

I cannot do without

Your gaze is my neurosis

It’s all I think about.

This is the seedy side,

the artist always looking for lovers.

Scavenging for scraps,

tell me I matter.

Butterfingers grasping,

at meaning, at purpose,

whipping up a dizzying hunger,

then reaching out,

to stop spinning.

But your eyes,

are just another reflective surface.

Alright,

I’ll admit,

it’s not all true,

I’ve seen other things too.

Some solace

can soften a cynicism:

the crackle of connection,

a gravitational pull.

Lips,

hands,

skin.

Poets would say:

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”

And when you think about it.

Really–

really think.

What else is there,

but love and its consequences,

risk and defeat?

Peel back,

that’s it.

It starts with the heart,

probably ends there too.

So, I submit.

To agony, to ecstasy,

discomfort and shame,

the absurd undoings

of love and art…

breaking, burning, melting,

forging.

I’ll leave this ending open…

with open eyes, open heart.

Look at the fucking mess we’ve made.

Then,

wait for the applause.

Julia Schouten, February 2025