Timothy Standring

Albert Road


Four videos, colour, sound

1:00min each

Courtesy of the Artist


Arriving in a glaze of brown gold, warm wind strikes the open fields whistling through a rusty Ryanair bringing all the kiddos trying to get a shot of lifestyle. Light reflects in Prada glasses they bought at Manchester duty free, while I start to feel why the smell of Kasbah reminds me of that little room filled with old Sahara Noir in El Jadida that Miley was running loops in the background.


Burst of large drops hit the ochre painted earth like bullets, raising small geysers of dust. But the water, almost instantly evaporated into the air, does not have time to penetrate or to form puddles. The air, usually dry, is briefly loaded with surprising sauna-like humidity. For a few minutes I'm at the uniformed roadblocks in Calabar until the Sun dries up this meagre mania. Then the desert's dry heat comes back again in full race and doubt settles in; did it really rain? Maybe those large drops were only a mirage, the vain vision lost in the middle of Ouarzazate just as the eternal snows of the Atlas mountains under the blue sky, seen from the heat crushed Red city.


The castle is on the old 50 dirham note she tells me, eating another bowl of fresh snails in the middle of it all. The studio opens its gates, we change scenes from Kundun to Asterix and back to Baader Meinhof. Depardieu was hiding at Hotel Oscar’s Cleopatra suite, drinking Muse de Miraval they left while the Seven Years in Tibet shoot. Overlooking the Game of Thrones fortress made of plaster far out in rough sands behind Lhasa, we spit shiny stones into the dark light green skies of the oasis pictured on the Orangejuice tetra. Blue Rain hits the rose leaves inside the glass covered riad, scrambling a few words about that lemon chicken filled with liver and musk, avoiding the dirty washing of a divorce up in Perpignan. The cracks are now fixed with silver tape that bounces lights in the studio, small drops hitting big black buckets on the yellow covered beds in the remodeled garden, while the baby cats feed on a small bird head. Something always reminds me of your eyes.