Violaine Lochu pronounces her surname in a dozen different ways. We get to the point where it’s hard to tell what the right pronunciation is. Identity is disturbed by accentuation. Then, she recites thirty or so diminutives of her first name. Which seems to become exoticised, each time arriving at a new story, a new face.
At the same time we see a hand tracing the word mother in pencil in a dozen different languages, some of the letters are rubbed out and replaced by others. Bridges are formed between the languages? The trace of each letter erased persists under the new letter added. Perhaps some pimordial language emerges from this intermingling?