From here, you can see everything:
the sea to the right,
the mountains to the left,
the sky in between.

They were almost the same.
I visited the first place a few years ago with a person I cared about back then. Identical bungalows, hidden behind wild plants, an abandoned summer resort. We saw the things left behind by those who’d been there before us - plastic bottles, dirty sheets, shoes, pillows, garbage cans. It seemed like we too could stay there. It seemed like we too could stop moving. After that summer, I kept returning to those same bungalows.
I only visited the second place once. I was there to do a job, not to make a film. Identical buildings, hidden between trees and bushes. I was immediately reminded of the first place, the abandoned resort. This place was an asylum, but the two places looked like each other’s pasts or each other’s futures. You could easily imagine the people from one place living in the other. Once I’d put them together, the images of the one place flowed smoothly into the images of the other.
It can’t just have been about specifics. The light, of course, is unique and you can see the difference. The gazes I encountered were also different. In the basic order, the delineation of space, the possibilities it offers, there was clearly a line connecting the first and the second place.
There is a third one too, the one I haven’t ever visited but which is the most famous of them all: the Cité Radieuse. You can’t see it, but you hear about it. The words were WRITTEN BY: someone else, who also saw no break in the flow. The basic order was the same, he said, and it doesn’t matter who writes it in the end.
It's about something else. Places lived in by bodies. Bodies together.