With the outbreak of the pandemic, we decamped to the countryside. We led an isolated life in the embrace of the forest and our imaginations. The virus period supplied conceptions of the post-apocalyptic and the void it contains. We remained in the grip of anxiety and uncertainty. While hiking in the woods, we kept happening upon abandoned village huts and palaces. We documented them, searched for what information we could find. Little by little, we gleaned local legends, rumours, tragic tales. We wove them into a novel reality replete with haunted houses and ghosts trailing us. In this way we eluded the catastrophic vision of a deadly disease, escaping into multidimensionality and magic. Our world was every bit as disturbing, but in an enchanted and supernatural way. Within this alternate reality we pursued all kinds of magical activities that would disrupt a rational approach to the subject.
One such action was binding the places we found in order to seal their stories, their physical perimeters, and to metaphorically arrest their decay. Here was a reference to the folk magic of knots, whereby a thing bound is stopped, and that which looms is headed off.