Monokino Ostend

Screening of Blue, 2019. Photo by Eva Claus

I first came across Monokino while doing research on Derek Jarman’s Blue. On their website, I found a description of its screening that stopped me: at dusk, the soundtrack was played on the beach, and the audience was invited to project their own images onto the ever-changing horizon. The sea became the movie theater. That image—intimate, elemental, and collective—captures something essential about Monokino.

In 2018, artist Anouk De Clercq founded Monokino in Ostend, a coastal city in Belgium, as both a response to the disappearance of art cinema in the region and a tribute to its cultural history. What began as an idea for a single film initiative has since become a nomadic platform that collaborates with spaces across the city—pavilions by the sea, community centers, artist-run spaces—screening films that return to the sea as site, metaphor, and companion.

Monokino also maintains a public list of sea-related films contributed by its community and organizes Shhh, an annual festival dedicated to silent cinema. But at its core, Monokino fights for something simple and radical: that every city—large or small, industrial or quiet—deserves a space where cinema can be encountered as art and as a shared experience. More than a platform, it is a quiet insistence: images must have a place in the world, and that place can be built together, wherever people are willing to gather.

Anouk De Clercq, Yindi Chen, Yutong Shi, March 18, 2025

Yutong

For someone who doesn’t know Monokino, how would you describe it briefly?

Anouk

Based in Ostend, Monokino is a film platform dedicated to showcasing films inspired by the sea. Ostend isn’t a large city, but it is Belgium’s biggest coastal town. As a child, I often visited the seaside here, making it a familiar and beloved place. In 2017, I was invited as an artist to a major art event along the coast. For this project, each participating artist was asked to select a location to present their work. While exploring the city, I noticed that the last cinema in Ostend had closed in 2012. This observation inspired the creation of Monokino, which opened in 2018.

Yutong

Do you mean there’s no movie theater in Ostend at all?

Anouk

There’s a large multiplex housed in a massive bunker, which I wouldn’t really call a cinema, since it screens only blockbusters. Ostend, however, once had a rich cinema history. Between the 1930s and 1960s, the city had around 16 cinemas. Today, though, there is no independent or art house cinema anywhere in the region—you have to travel about 40 kilometers to Bruges to find one.
I came up with the idea of starting a new film initiative, feeling the city needed something more lasting than a temporary video installation. I suggested to the curator that we could use the 25,000 euros initially offered as a production budget for a new work to launch this initiative—but he didn’t agree. So Monokino began as a simple, almost innocent idea: an artist wanting to create a space for films.
Over time, however, it also became an exploration of what cinema spaces could mean in the 21st century. We challenged the notion that cinema culture is only about mainstream blockbusters, often leaving no room for a broader vision. Quickly, Monokino evolved into a political player within the city.

Yutong

Among all the places—probably many old cities with cultural heritage—why did you choose Ostend?

Anouk

There were several reasons. The first was simply coincidental: I was invited to the art event in Ostend as an artist. Second, Ostend once had a rich cinema culture, but that is no longer the case. Third, the neighboring seaside city of Knokke once hosted EXPRMNTL, an influential European festival that played a key role in the history of experimental film.
Another reason is the legacy of Belgian film pioneer Henri Storck, who lived in Ostend. In 1928—ninety years before Monokino began—Storck co-founded the Club du cinéma d’Ostende (Ostend Film Club) with fellow artists and cinephiles such as James Ensor and Félix Labisse. The Ostend Film Club became a hub for experimental cinema, attracting over a thousand members and spectators. It influenced Storck’s own filmmaking and helped shape Belgian cinema. Monokino is, in many ways, a nod to this pivotal moment in cinema history.
Perhaps the most important reason, however, is that Ostend feels like a city on the edge, even within a geologically small country like Belgium. We wanted to present non-mainstream films there, to demonstrate that curiosity for cinema transcends background or circumstance. I also believe it’s almost a crime to assume that the mainstream voice is sufficient for any city, without providing a platform for all other voices.

Shhh, 2025. Photo by Eva Swennen

Yindi

How do you feel about the community around Monokino?

Anouk

When I first planned Monokino, I walked around Ostend and spoke with locals, and everyone I met was enthusiastic about the idea of a small independent cinema in the city. The intention was simple: to help spark something new. Very quickly, a community began to form around the project, and I was no longer alone. Monokino became a collective from the very beginning.

Yutong

How do you define “collective”?

Anouk

We wanted Monokino to be collective, horizontal, and highly inclusive. Everyone is a volunteer: you join when you have time and contribute however you can. New people join every few months, and those who have left sometimes return.
Godart Bakkers—who now co-runs Monokino with me as co-artistic director—is very active in the Belgian film scene as a curator and programmer. Daniella Van Remoortere, a passionate lover of culture who is retired, handles promotion: she personally distributes flyers throughout her district—and they actually work. Over the years, many different people have joined and contributed to the project, and we had some kind of structure.

Yutong

Do you think that the transition of becoming structured happened naturally? And do you think all collectives go through this kind of process?

Anouk

I see it as striving to be more professional—not in a neo-liberal sense, but as a form of respect for the people you work with. You don’t want to be careless with those who give their time and energy for free. Now that we have some funding, we can pay people, though not in proportion to the work they do.
In any organization or platform, respect for your collaborators comes first, regardless of budget size. But when everyone contributes alongside full-time jobs, the dynamic changes. Maintaining clear communication and genuinely taking care of people becomes essential.

Yindi

Is your funding from the government or private foundations?

Anouk

Culture in Belgium relies heavily on state support. So far, the film fund and government have been very helpful, and we consider ourselves very lucky.

Yindi

About the name Monokino—“Kino” means cinema, right? What does “Mono” mean?

Anouk

We never wanted to be a multiplex; everything we do is about the intimacy of coming together to watch a film. So the “mono” in Monokino doesn’t mean multiplex—it means monoplex. We don’t aim to be grand or pretentious; we want to be as open, warm, and accessible as possible.
There’s also a playful reference: in Belgium, when a woman goes to the beach and takes off her top to sunbathe, it’s called going “monokini” in both French and Flemish. People might say, “Should I go monokini today?” or “Can I go monokini here?”—a phrase that carries a sense of freedom, which many locals recognize. Sometimes, people in Ostend even accidentally say, “Let’s go to Monokini!” When they realize the mix-up, they usually blush and laugh, which is quite charming.

Yindi

Why did you choose to make Monokino nomadic?

Anouk

At first, the idea was to create a dedicated space for cinema—a true home for independent film. When I discussed this with others involved in Monokino, we took a long walk along the beach, talking about what each of us was willing to invest. In the end, none of us wanted to commit to a permanent space—it would have required too much money, time, and energy to run programs every day of the week.

Yindi

How do you usually do your screenings? What kind of spaces have you collaborated with?

Anouk

We see cinema as an adventure, so we call it adventurous cinema. We avoid labels like experimental, avant-garde, non-mainstream, independent, or alternative—terms that are overused and can make people dismiss films as niche, boring, strange, or irrelevant. By framing it as adventurous cinema and exploring across genres, we create space for experimentation while potentially reaching audiences who aren’t necessarily familiar with experimental film.
Once we decided against a permanent space, we discovered many advantages to this freedom. Not only can we curate films, but we can also curate the space itself, choosing the setting that best suits each screening.
We’ve collaborated with a number of organizations in Ostend. Our main partner is KAAP, a pavilion on the promenade with a large window overlooking the sea—it’s absolutely beautiful. We also work with kleinVerhaal, an organization constantly fighting to maintain its location, which the city often threatens to take away, placing them in a precarious situation. There is a lot of mutual sympathy between us.
Other collaborations include a youth center, a seaside science project, and an independent artist-run organization called Pleasure Island, which relocated outside Ostend two years ago due to limited support for independent initiatives from the local government. More recently, we’ve worked with Projectvierennegentig, a new cultural organization developing residencies for younger artists, as well as Elysee, an old club still occasionally used as a nightclub.

Shhh, 2022. Photo by Barbara Jarque

Yutong

How many screenings have you actually done directly on the beach?

Anouk

The first film we screened was Blue by Derek Jarman. The local government at the time didn’t grant us a permit to show it on the beach, but we went ahead anyway, making it a bit of a pirate-style screening.

Yutong

Can you describe the screening a little?

Anouk

It was at sunset. During the screening, the sun slowly sank, and the colors of the sky kept shifting until darkness fell. We watched the sky and all its blues—not a single blue, not an International Klein Blue like in the film, but a spectrum of blues. It harmonized perfectly with the emotions Derek Jarman conveyed through the soundtrack.
We set out some deck chairs and invited people to bring towels, cushions, or pillows to sit on. This was Monokino’s second screening, and about sixty people attended, lying on the beach with just two speakers and a small sound mixer. If the police had come, it would have been easy enough to run off. At the same time, people walking their dogs along the shore stopped to listen to Jarman’s Blue—and it was pretty magical.

Yindi

It sounds more like a theater than a cinema.

Anouk

It was a very moving experience.
A couple of years ago, we brought a boat and sailed from Ghent to Ostend, anchored in the harbor, and presented a film installation by Simon Starling in the belly of the boat. The film tells the story of a self-built wooden boat with a small motor powered by a wood stove: wood is taken from the ship itself, fed into the stove to run the motor, and in the end, with no wood left, the boat sinks—consuming its own body as fuel.
The harbor where we screened the film used to be a fishermen’s area, where people lived and worked. Today, however, it’s almost impossible to make a living as a fisherman, and the area has been gentrified. The screening became a metaphor for Ostend consuming itself, reflecting both the collapse of the fishing industry and the effects of capitalist pressures on people’s lives.
More recently, we screened Daughters of Darkness, a lesbian vampire film by Harry Kümel that was partly shot in Ostend. The venue was the seaside pavilion I mentioned earlier—the one with the large window overlooking the sea—which also appears in the film. The director joined us for the screening and shared stories about Ostend and the shoot. We had a strong turnout—perhaps 70 to 80 people. Of course, not every screening draws such a crowd; sometimes there are only around 30 attendees.

Autoxylopyrocycloboros, 2006. Image courtesy of Simon Starling

Yindi

I noticed the film you showed recently, Pink Ulysses. Does the director also have a connection with Ostend?

Anouk

Yes, Eric De Kuyper is a critical rebel, and he has been on Monokino’s board since day one. He hosted our very first screening and has always spoken his mind. Pink Ulysses is a great example of that—a truly unique film filled with enchanting, sensual, homoerotic imagery.
He has also written books about Ostend—love letters, really. When the city planned to demolish many of its Belle Époque buildings and replace them with bland apartment blocks, he fought to preserve them. Thanks to his efforts, several important landmarks still stand today.

Yindi

How does Monokino’s program connect with the communities around Ostend?

Anouk

We have a list of film titles suggested by people through our website. There’s a note inviting anyone who can think of a film related to the sea to send it to us. We add these suggestions to the list, gradually building a kind of database.
We always try to create a connection between the films and the spaces where we show them. Most of us don’t live in Ostend—we’re a bit like aliens landing there—so we actively seek people from the city who want to help run the space with us. We’re not married to Monokino; we would be happy to hand it over one day, or step aside if another initiative emerges. It doesn’t have to last forever. As long as there’s a need for it, and we have the drive and energy, we will keep going.

Yindi

What are the challenges you are facing running Monokino?

Anouk

We still exist because we enjoy challenges. Monokino is run entirely by volunteers—Godart and I have never earned a cent, and we do this in our free time. Each year we receive a small grant from the Flemish Audiovisual Fund, which helps a little.
We started Monokino not for profit, but to stay inspired without burning out. We want to have fun, take pleasure in our work, and continue out of passion. I’d rather be a kind of pirate—a small, nomadic, flexible organization with a bit of funding—than a highly structured one with lots of programs that’s completely underfunded and ends up exploiting people.

Yutong

For you personally, do you feel that the platform has evolved into something you still feel aligned with?

Anouk

Yes, I’m very proud of Monokino and of the people involved—I really love them and the work we do. Every program at Monokino feels a bit like a family gathering. After a screening, I love talking with the audience, hearing their thoughts on the film and how—or if—it resonated with their lives. Moments like that always make us think, “Right, this is why we do this.”
The only concern we have is that we don’t actually live in Ostend. It raises a real question: what is our responsibility to the community that actually lives there? We are outsiders looking in. Yet, in that position, we can also be more critical of how culture is perceived in the city. And because we have nothing to lose—unlike other organizations—we aren’t afraid to speak up.

Yindi

Besides film screenings, could you talk about some of the other projects you’ve done with Monokino?

Anouk

Last summer, we invited 25 nomadic film platforms from different parts of the world to join a discussion around the social life of film, asking questions about how to engage with audiences and how to work collectively.

Yutong

Were those discussions open to the public as well?

Anouk

No, because the participating platforms already formed quite a large group of more than 55 people. These gatherings take place in different cities, each time organized by a different platform. The first one happened two years ago in Copenhagen, the second was organized by us, and the next will take place in Berlin. We’re working toward a publication titled The Social Life of Film.

The Social Life of Film, 2024. Photo by Barbara Jarque

Yindi

I noticed that you also co-initiated the film production platform Auguste Orts. I wonder how you see the importance of creating different kinds of spaces for the surrounding communities.

Anouk

We started Auguste Orts in 2006. We were four artists and got together with Marie Logie, the director of the space. At that time, each of us was like a one-person orchestra—trying to do everything alone: production, filmmaking, finding funding, doing the distribution of films. We began to wonder if it would be possible to build a platform so that we could share the workload, our networks, and the expertise we had built over the years.
In 2006, most of us were in our 30s or 40s; we were not young, aspiring artists anymore. We had, let's say, a little less ego. Every age has its challenges and interests, but I think for us, it was easier to work together and exchange.
The idea was to explore whether we could professionalize our approach and make it more engaging. We're not really producers—we're artists. But we wanted to find a model that could support not just ourselves, but others too, as many moving image artists faced the same challenges. Auguste Orts was an experiment and it worked. Over the years, many people have interned with us, and some have gone on to start their own platforms. Now, in Belgium, there are quite a few models like that, which is great.
At the time, we were described as an “alternative production model.” Luckily, after a few years, that “alternative” label fell away. But I think it’s important that you can critique existing models. You can respond by being annoyed by it or by creating a counter-narrative. And that doesn’t necessarily mean just reacting defensively; it can also be a creative, generative act.

Yutong

I think you’re creating a kind of mentality for people—offering a way of thinking that provokes and inspires them to keep going, to move into other things. That’s probably the most important part.

Anouk

Yes, and also don’t pretend that you are the inventor of something. You’re part of a network that’s being built—it’s just one node among many. The community only exists because these nodes are connected. I think it's also why there are so many of these platforms coming up as the political situation is what it is. In the future, we probably will have to depend on each other much more.
There's another initiative that I really like: Cinema of Commoning in Berlin, a very interesting model that invites curators and independent film practitioners from all over the world to come together and learn from each other. It’s a very humbling experience to learn within the global community.

Shhh, 2025. Photo by Eva Swennen

Yutong

Are there any other independent spaces that you recommend us to look into around the world?

Anouk

In 2019, I wrote a book Where is Cinema? because I wanted to do some research and learn more about cinema initiatives before starting Monokino. I spoke with people who were running spaces I really admired. Some of those platforms still exist today, while others have disappeared over time.
I really like Potocine in Colombia. In the favelas of Bogota, they started a film school trying to keep kids off the streets. Over the years, young people began making their own films, and eventually, the initiators thought, “Now that we have all these films, we need a place to show them.” So, together with the community, they built the cinema in that area, on a hill in Bogota. It’s not only a cinema but also a community kitchen, a theater, and a film school. I think it’s a very beautiful and inspiring model.
I was recently struck by a public conversation with Abiba Coulibaly, who runs the nomadic Brixton Community Cinema in London. Someone in the audience asked if she would rather run a permanent cinema space, and she replied, “At the moment, I can’t afford to move out of my mum’s home, let alone find an affordable permanent place for showing films.” She was considering opening a cinema in Morocco, because she might not afford to continue living in London.
There is also Ajabu Ajabu in Tanzania, a super exciting audiovisual art space in Dar-es-Salaam where, when asked about government support, the response was: “Government support for us means that they allow us to do our screenings.” Running an art space means different things in different parts of the world.