Jonas shows up and the group changes its name. Three plus one equals four – you can’t argue with math. With Jonas added to the others, the threesome turns into a foursome.

On top of being the fourth friend, Jonas is also the man with the video camera. If you catch sight of a man behind a camera in the apartment of the three friends, you can be sure it’s Jonas.

Jonas is a little bit like John, but without an h in the middle, and with nas at the end. How’s that for lexicology?

Jonas and his brother share a stylish ground-floor apartment on a street parallel to the Workshop. A thin drywall partition separates the apartment into two tiny rooms, more or less equal in terms of living space. It’s always dark in there, too hot or too cold, the air reeking of moisture. That said, Jonas couldn’t care less. He’s only ever home to sleep. Most of the time he’s gone. Video camera in hand, strolling around, making friends who introduce him to their friends, and then together they make a film among friends until fatigue overcomes them. Then Jonas turns off the video camera, goes home to go to bed, and in his dark room he dreams of his film.

The material for the sociable Jonas’s films is made up only of encounters between people – he doesn’t film anything other than people meeting, dating, breaking up. Jonas’s brother was a recurring figure in the first films but, since he hardly ever goes out except to go to work, he’s no longer a part of the cast. As inseparable as the two brothers were for such a long time, now they just bump into each other sometimes: Hello there, my brother, how’s it going? with a polite kiss on the cheek and nothing more, end of story.

Jonas and his brother come from a small village located in a traditionally little-known country. It’s one of those landlocked countries difficult to locate on a map. It’s one of those countries whose name is hard to spell, which can’t be pronounced without also mispronouncing the name of its inhabitants. But even if a lot isn’t known about it, it’s one of those countries people can’t help but have some idea about. It is, they say, a country whose inhabitants never venture beyond its borders. Not because they would have to leave in some clandestine way – it’s because of the well-known poverty that seems to reign over the land that no one thinks about going on trips to places they can’t afford.

It was while cutting across fields of rubble that the two brothers began a trip of their own, a trip to a foreign country. When their path, as risky as it was, crossed a train station, they boarded a train and took the first unoccupied seats they saw. Ignorant of the rules of public transportation, they hadn’t thought to buy a ticket. We no understand language. We not know read well. We writing like dogs. Such is the story they told the ticket inspector. The inspector, not taking himself for the idiot they hoped him to be, stuck them with a fine and kicked them off at the next station. The two in-debt brothers reached the nearest town, where they had to resolve to take the first job that came along. They slaved away moving pallets for eight-hour shifts. Nevertheless, they earned money. They paid their debt to the railway and, with the rest of the cash, financed the next leg of their trip. They hit the trail. Oh, the towns they saw! They forgot them methodically, that is to say one after the other. Seen from a warehouse located in an industrial area, the towns no doubt resembled one another. Small towns: once you’ve forgotten one, you’ve forgotten them all. The way they tell it, the two brothers had to change languages multiple times, to become accustomed to new ways of lugging around pallets, and to get their ears accustomed to new ways of being called every name under the sun by the nasally voice of a bastard foreman. Still, wherever they were, they found a way to scrape by, making use of their willingness to work. They moved a lot, using a large variety of means of transportation. They travelled with no destination in mind. They left wherever they were at season’s end with the feeling of having accomplished their mission, or rather what was done was done and no longer needed doing. A nice-sounding name was enough to make them stop in its corresponding town. At one point, they almost considered settling down somewhere. It’s hard to say what was going through his head, but one day Jonas invested what little savings he had into the acquisition of a secondhand video camera. This tool gave a new direction to their wanderings. From then on, the desire to film would guide their trip. Along the way, they hit New York New York. So many places to explore, so many images to capture, so many friends for a night or longer. This city was made for Jonas to film. As for his wet blanket of a brother, once he settled down, he no longer wanted to go out. These adventures had exhausted him. Shortly after his arrival into the city, he found an honest girl, and as he himself was an honest boy, together they formed an honest, self-sufficient couple. They spent their free time just the two of them, staying at one’s place, staying at the other’s, nobody between them. There’s no denying, they convinced themselves each evening upon returning from work, there’s no place like home.

At the end of this journey, we are able to confirm that these two, Jonas and his brother, form what we’ll call a family. A what? A family. Never heard of this word. Oh, well, a family is a unit in which ass-fucking is forbidden. In no instance did Jonas nor Jonas’s brother ever give themselves over to it, not even with a third party. No big A for the Jonas brothers, but rather a J as in Jonas, and a C as in camera.

At the sound of this letter, Jonas turns on his camera and films the opening where the group has led him.

This evening, the art lovers have arranged to meet in a space that’s about sixty square metres. Rumour has it that this apartment has been empty for years, that the landlord is a filthy-rich old man who owns so much of it – real estate, that is – that he’s forgotten about this one. Young artists have set up there. They’ve made it into a place for living and a place for exhibiting. They’ll stay as long as the authorities will tolerate them. A day will come when the landlord will wake up, react, get angry. A day will come when the young artists will be forced to leave and hit with a crazy fine, which will forever dissuade them from squatting on others’ property. But before this cruel denouement happens, a groovy opening is taking place this evening.

Camera on his shoulder, Jonas moves through the dense crowd, which is excited and talkative. The space has plenty of people, plenty of noise and plenty of atmosphere. No sentence is audible from beginning to end. Bits of comments emerge related to the opening: This is a nice event, I’m glad we came, we should actually come back to see the work, because it’s difficult to squeeze through to see this 148 x 79 x 68 cm wooden, fibreglass, polyurethane rubber and fabric sculpture, depicting the artist stretched out on a bed, awaiting death in various positions derived from some religion, like, for example, Catholicism.

The video camera moves forward, inviting itself into groups’ discussions. Depending on the discussion and the people, some gladly offer their smiles to the camera, others turn away or get quiet. Suddenly, the camera catches a strange light. It’s a full head of hair or a man-sized Christmas tree. It seems to be moving. It looks like a head. A head with decorated hair: silvery, coppery, shimmering hair, gilded hair that glistens, shines, sparkles, with a thousand variations at the light’s whim. Party hair. Gay hair, joyous, resplendent, cheerful. It’s even more beautiful at night.

Under this hair is Andy.

Andy who?

Andy, the new friend of the group.