On the day his life changed, Eric Lampaert woke up and saw his hands. What amazed him was that they were moving in front of him, and he appeared to be the person in control of them. We’re drinking coffee in the Groucho Club in London, and at this point he lets go of his cup and wriggles his fingers. Lampaert is an actor and standup whose work has a strong clowning dimension. His hands always seemed to have minds of their own – and, sometimes, strong differences of opinion. But as he got out of bed that fateful morning, marvelling at the magical things on the ends of his arms, he felt only wonder. What he didn’t yet know was that he had lost his memory, and his life would no longer feel like his own.
That was seven years ago, on 17 March 2019, Lampaert says, a date not so much stamped in his memory as retrieved from his journal and recommitted. It was a knock on the door that told him “there were other things out there” beyond his bedroom: the Miracle Mile district of Los Angeles, housemates in the home he’d once shared with his estranged wife, and the downstairs neighbour who’d knocked to collect a bottle of bleach. Lampaert had borrowed it to clean coffee stains from the sink, but now he didn’t know the person at the door or the housemate wandering by. “Eric?” his neighbour said. “And I went: ‘I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know …”
