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We often imagine music through the people who listen to it.

We give music a face, a body, and a certain kind of presence.

But plot twist,

You wouldn’t necessarily guess that the music in Lisa Verheertbruggen’s headphones could be hardcore techno.

Not because hardcore techno has a particular look.

But because we tend to build little stories around the type of music some people may listen to.

With Lisa, she just happens to carry that kind of speed and intensity with her, but very quietly.

For many years, Lisa’s practice has been rooted in hardcore techno.

She looks at what this music does to the body, and what the body does with it.

In October 2024, I came across Lisa Verheertbruggen’s work for the first time withWhile We Are Here at Les Halles de Schaerbeek.

Which defines itself as a tribute to hardcore rave culture through gabber.

Five performers move through it but the rave remains the main character.

The music set the pace.

The intensity set the rules.

The performers are not asking for space. They have already taken it.

Maybe that’s also why Lisa’s work feels so physical.

Because it puts you in front of bodies.

In 2026, Lisa Vereertbrugghen comes with an other plot twist entitled « Again, forever ».

The hardcore is gone. Couple dancing takes its place.

Lisa trades speed for slowness. Intensity for sensuality. The crowd for the couple.

The bodies no longer move together because the music tells them to. They move because there is someone else there.

They approach, cruise, touch, embrace each other. And, somewhere between two bodies, different kinds of relationships begin to appear.

By the time you realize the end of the performance is coming, you already wish it wasn’t.

Not because you need to know what happens next, but because you just want to stay there a little longer.

Hey! I'd love to hear your thoughts, send me a voice note.

Cultural institutions have always claimed the authority to preserve culture. They decide what deserves to be remembered. What belongs in the archive. And, eventually, what becomes history. Today's guest has spent years asking a simple question: What happens if artists stop waiting for institutions and start building their own?

I met Simon Van Schuylenbergh during my years at P.A.R.T.S., back in 2017. The first time I stepped into his apartment, I was greeted by a giant zebra standing in the middle of the living room.I only later found out there were nine other giant zebras, all part of the stage design for one of Simon's solo performances.Looking back, it felt like a very good introduction to Simon's work.Everything begins with an improbable image. Then, somehow, it starts making perfect sense. In 2019, Simon ran Volksroom. An artist-run space where performers came to show ideas, and not conclusions. And a few years later came Ne Mosquito Pas. A platform built around an unusual invitation: "Artists are not expected to succeed; they are strongly invited to fail. "Perhaps because, once the pressure to make something "good" disappears, artists can finally get to the heart of what they want to make.

Last year, Simon gave birth to Anal Pompidou. A museum that doesn't exist, yet somehow feels very alive. Part institutional critique, part queer fantasy, part DIY cultural centre. Anal Pompidou has been running for a year now.The title makes people laugh. The programme keeps them coming back. Every evening begins the same way. Simon welcomes us into the 30-seat audience, always sold out.He presents the night. Then come three artists. Three performances.Ten minutes each. No permanent collection. No wall texts. Just work.

Now entering its second season, Anal Pompidou proves that sometimes, all it takes to build an alternative to cultural institutions is: A good idea, a few talented artists, relentless conviction, and the audacity to call it one.