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.
Yutong
Anouk
Yutong
Anouk
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
Anouk
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.
Yindi
Anouk
Yutong
Anouk
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
Anouk
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
Anouk
Yindi
Anouk
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
Anouk
Yindi
Anouk
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.
Yutong
Anouk
Yutong
Anouk
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
Anouk
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.
Yindi
Anouk
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
Anouk
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
Anouk
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
Anouk
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
Anouk
Yutong
Anouk
Yindi
Anouk
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
Anouk
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.
Yutong
Anouk
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.