Notes on Running A Space
1.
SPACE IS A BODY
Its “flesh” holds its potential and possibilities. It breathes with agency and a sense of self; it is never to be exploited. As cohabitants, we interact with this “body” everyday; sometimes we touch, sometimes we purposely do nothing.
2.
SPACE IS A REPOSITORY,
A VESSEL, A CARRIER BAG
It holds the spirits, energies, and emotions of those who encounter it. Like us, a space, too, needs to rest.
The question is, can we calculate the amount of resting time a space needs?
Stage(s) of Resting (dual channel video, Kassel 2022) poses a question about “resting” to all our collective members. Nguyễn Duy Anh (filmmaker, member of the ba-bau AIR collective) created a video about our space in Hà Nội while pest control measures were being carried out. As with an intervention, with reverence, we tried not to be in that space, we tried not to touch it. During that moment, it was as if the space was resting.
We learned that resting time is perhaps not meant to be scheduled, much as how a person only rests when they are sick. A space has its own preferences and logic for rest and it can be difficult to distinguish the space’s physical and spiritual needs. More than once, spirits who have resided here for nearly a century have scolded us about how we treat the space. One time, our dead landlord reminded us about the importance of his beloved kitchen table by shutting off our electronic devices. There are unspoken boundaries that allow no errors. And if there are disagreements about these sacred lines, we are reminded of this from time to time by the space’s observers.
What is sacredness anyway? How we revere a space is personal. Our collective is formed around a shared affection toward the space. But, at the same time, such reverence can be rendered irrelevant in the eyes of those who do not share our feelings. Therefore, these tensions or contradictions yield a constant process of negotiation between the differing observers and caretakers.
3.
SPACE IS NEVER FIXED
Space fluctuates, expands and contracts. Its ownership is fluid. It has “AIR,” attitude, and volatility. Anything and everything inside and outside a space can and should leave even more space in flux. One cannot own the space, but one might claim ownership of it and further nourish the space in close conjunction with non-ownership itself.
4.
SPACE IS UNREAL, SPACE IS FICTIONAL
The house is unreal. The house is fictional.
Our inhabitation is real. Our being is real.
We create the space.
We create the house.
We are the space.
We are the house.
5.
ADAPT AS SITUATIONS ARISE. CHALLENGE THE NORMS THAT MAY GROW OUT OF SUCH SITUATIONS.
6.
A CO-OWNED SPACE IS WHERE EACH AND EVERY OCCUPANT SHARES THE RESPONSIBILITY OF OWNING IT
A space can run by itself without a specific owner because everyone is both owner and non-owner.
There is no distinction between hosts and guests.
To share domesticity, to share even the most mundane task like cleaning the house or watering the plant means to give permission to the new occupants to join in and take charge of their newfound ownership. Sharing the sense of ownership is as simple as having the key available to anyone at any time, helping to wash dishes or rearrange bookshelves. Those who use the space have equal access to it. The space is to provide comfort and to be used at will, whether for working, resting, or avoiding traffic jams. The space only asks that those who use it maintain its condition so that other people can feel at home too.
Naturally, the space is in a state of flux, like the waves on a riverbed. It is transparent, resilient, and moves at its own pace.
7.
A SAFE SPACE IS WHERE EVERYONE IS FREE TO KEEP THEIR OWN SPEED AND PACE, WITHOUT BEING SUBMITTED TO STRESS OR ANY OTHER OUTER FORCES (THE POSITION OF THE SUN, FOR EXAMPLE)
There is no such thing as a universal sense of time.
Time is relative. Time stays still, ceases to exist or is neglected in this designated setting – or seems to be.
Time is shared and cannot be owned.
Here, there is no fixed temporality.
In the space at 82A Thợ Nhuộm, bà bầu Hà Nội, time bends according to the density, energy, and narrative of whatever is happening. The first year of the pandemic entered straight into an oblivion outside our timeline: contactless, eventless, tasteless. During the summer of the second pandemic year, two days after the public emergency announcement, our residency turned into a quarantine shelter and stayed that way for two eternal months. Usually after dinner, surprise gatherings happen. Several teapots worth of dialogue pass by. Either someone will ruefully take leave because our neighborly bike watchman cannot stay up any later, or someone will rush to the shop to buy a toothbrush so that they can stay the night. During a kitchen talk, each revels in their own orbit: Linh gave our guest speaker cô Síu a surprise haircut, Nga washed the dishes, Chung swept the floor, other attendees prepared watermelon and recorded the session. All at once, in the same room, unscripted, forceless, well-woven, and conflict-free.
8.
LOOK AFTER THE HOUSE, THE CATS, THE PLANTS, AND THE NEIGHBOR(HOOD)
both voluntarily and obligatorily, in order to safeguard a robust and healthy future for the community. A collective is not only about a particular group of people; it is also about its surrounding life and milieu. Everything which nurtures and plants seeds can further the growth of the collective and its practice.
9.
USE THE LEAST MATERIALS
in designing the space and reuse and recycle whenever possible. Avoid hoarding! Assign purpose and potentialities to every object within the space. Objects that lack these should be given to those in need.
10.
ANYTHING CAN BE MOBILE, REPLACABLE, EASY TO DISMANTLE AND REASSEMBLE
both in form and in function. Depending on the purpose, all users have all rights and responsibilities towards the space and the things inside it at all times.
11.
OCCUPANTS ARE ENCOURAGED TO UTILIZE, DESIGN, AND FACILITATE THE SPACE ACCORDING TO THEIR OWN PRACTICE AND INTERESTS
Nghia’s reading sessions can go by without anyone saying a word. Some Sundays can pass quietly under the thick summer air that hangs heavy before the rain. Between the words and between the pages, a dense atmosphere pushes down on ba-bau.
Duy Anh & Nga’s cinema Hoa Quỳnh (epiphyllum flower) airs from eight in the evening to three in the morning (according to the circadian rhythm of two sleepless cinema enthusiasts). Seemingly out of thin air and out of a non-existent budget, they put up a theater-grade movie screen. Twice a week, they feast on films, sometimes with a drink, sometimes with guests, sometimes neither, but always with laughter. Shortly after, nobody knows how, Nga is admitted to the University of Theater and Performing Arts of Hanoi.
Such appropriations stretch, push, and teach.
Thus, the people learn. The space also learns.