There are discreet, almost invisible stories that risk slipping into oblivion without a sound. Following a year of itinerant theatre work in Alsatian villages, Julien Lewkowicz became deeply interested in territories torn between two countries, two languages, two identities; in the untold stories these places hold, the traces they leave behind, and the echoes they carry of his deported grandparents’ quiet experience of exile — an experience they never spoke of, yet one that continues to inhabit him. Can a memory of in-betweenness survive and travel through time? How can fragmented stories be woven into a narrative? Julien Lewkowicz envisions a two-part process: first, an investigation — gathering, recording and transcribing testimonies — followed by a theatrical performance developed from this research. At the intersection of documentary and theatre, the work brings collective history into dialogue with individual stories, inviting a younger generation to engage in conversation with those who came before.
Rédaction
In 2024, Julien Lewkowicz was awarded a Création en Cours grant by Ateliers Médicis. Over the course of six months, drawing on his encounters, writing residencies, and workshops with pupils at the Evelyne Nirouet primary school in Ueberstrass, in the Haut-Rhin department of France, he gradually developed C’est que les spectres ne dorment pas (It’s Because Ghosts Don’t Sleep), a work blending documentary and fiction that follows Aurélie, Claire, Nam, Cécile, Izabela, and Nathalie in their search for answers.
This research-led creative project resulted in the writing of a short film, as well as a presentation of work produced during workshops with Year 5 and Year 6 pupils at Evelyne Nirouet primary school.
“At first, my desire to write a documentary project about ‘broken’ genealogies led me to reach out to strangers who responded to an open call for testimonies. I became interested in investigations that had reached a dead end, due to a lack of information or cultural disconnection; in stories marked and fragmented by exile, disappearances, and family secrets.
Most of the people who contact me have lost track of a close or distant relative and struggle to piece together their story. There is, for example, Aurélie, a Swiss photographer who, while trying to shed light on the mysterious disappearance of her great-grandfather in 1947, discovered that he had in fact been executed by the French government for collaborating with the Gestapo.
Then there is Claire, whose uncle, a gay man, died of hepatitis in 1997. It took more than twenty years for her to learn that her uncle had actually died of AIDS. Although Claire is surprised to discover the figure of a committed activist, her research ultimately reaches a dead end.
There is Nam, a French-Vietnamese artist whose uncle vanished in 1993, leaving behind only a letter addressed to his sister — Nam’s mother. Nam was never allowed to know what the letter said.
And then there are Nathalie, Izabela, and Cécile, whose grandparents remain unknown, who discovered their adoptions later in life, or whose family histories are marked by unspoken exiles — as well as others who write to me every day.
All these testimonies share one thing: a lack of archival records. Is it possible for a memory, even a fragmented one, to survive, travel through time, and remain perceptible to us? How can we construct a narrative from fragmented stories?
All the ‘witnesses’ I correspond with share a longing to be able to speak with their dead. Since they have so few archival records, imagination is all they have left to make this possible. So what might happen if fiction and embodiment could help make up for the absence of archives?”
