Beatrix spends the summer in the garden, in a house on the outskirts of the city. Blazing heat, the sun on her skin, a garden hose in her hand. Toes in the air and grapes on her belly button. Alone with herself, not completely, yet alone. Doing nothing, or just doing something. Brushing her teeth, lying in the grass, getting dressed, undressing, changing into something else. Sometimes someone comes to visit. Being is somehow both easy and exhausting at the same time. While nothing much happens, something is always going on. Clouds drift across the sky, and perhaps the grass is tickling her back. Time is dragging on, like a sticky chewing gum. Canned peaches, pancakes and the fear of infinity. Glimpses of the world caught via teletext and phone calls as radio messages to the outside world. Touching everything and nothing because everything is beautiful, funny and strangely futile at the same time. Slowed down and enigmatic, life tells itself into the day. Precise and dreamlike images reveal a fragile, yet solid fabric between body and space that opens up possibilities of intimacy and storytelling. (dca)