Curator Charlotte Sprogøe
Photo Jan Søndergaard
We emptied out the elements. Smog lacing car and hands. Darkness closing eyes. Feel through your extensions. Step into objecthood with me. Doing it together. Boots for cover and protection. Boots with strange toe areas. A hip is both rounded and angular. Breaking off into pieces. Making air and distance more tangible. The statue is feeling faded. Only the balcony has the right dimensions for both rounded and angular volumes. Hydro pressures are for the living. Disperse off the cliff. Note that there is no filter. This is truth. Realism does not exist. Type in your destination. Whisper with a slight melody for easy recollection.
The motions are made by nimble hands. This was a contract of mutual sacrifice of equal measures. I used to be a conservative, they said. But not anymore. It is not the matter that is fluid it is the adornment. Much like the differences between Ionic, Doric and Corinthian columns. Exactly like that. A shift as great as these shapes. The balconies changed history. We do not write about it but pass it down through verse. The dexterity of the early balcony was frail in early rupture years. An object not entirely adroit, but through collaborations, also known as interactions or visits, with singularities they experienced a turnover unlike any other. Last gasp of an empire gave breath to the new collective. The balconies restarted civilization. Enclaves of compiled water. Assemble resistance and cleanse amass.
Release now the crusts of trepidation.
I find it strange that the statue was allowed to survive. This is relic-privilege. Break it in half and leave. Just hold on for a few months. Hold your breath and wear the boots. Find a balcony and rest. Crouch under obstacles. Rewind every night. Go home. Or try it on for size. Use a highlighter on your arches. Sparingly or not sparingly. Draw the hollows further in with the depths of stygian murk. Locate all your bones. Shade them into importance. Produce a pink flush. Be wise. Be tender. Do not forgo the settlement of dust onto your pores. They will otherwise shriek and revolt. They will reveal your secrets and send a note to Hades.
Blend. Blend. Blend. Tightline.
A telling sign of hard times is an increased emphasis on strong eyebrows. The brows are grown out, darkened, and filled in by meticulous measures. A strong brow game signals all the characteristic one would need on a soil prodded with conflict. This priority also gives the bearer an added advantage. They shield from rays of the sun. Armored foreheads plow through. Brushed up artillery.
Lash out. I built a seat once. Someone traded it. It was supposed to be yours. We will steal it back. Heist. Caper. Hit. I tried wearing the boots. Stepping in and out. It ended up being the long way around. Most of the shots ended up in the chest area. Pools disperse. Because of distance. Ignite.Stretched thin. Cover with spun. I write your eulogy. I make name tags. Face down. Chill. Bury time and stay en route. Kindled hills. Make a rescript. I thought this was more than equal. Find congruence. The rays are left bouncing around the pole. The kobold said to be humble. Nod and understand the context in which the advice was given. This was the last speck of divination told. The norms for the nonce are crashing. I never told you about it because we were driving and I did not want to make you nervous. Shared liquids are our strongest memories.
Green algae contains more protein than human meat. Let it fester. Breed. Grow. This is the terrain of reproduction.
Last seconds of physical contact. It is never enough. The cineaste gets up and steps out. The plane shuts in on the cube. The cube is whole again and enters the right details into the map function. Make a left. Time ended. The cube welcomes the state entirely devoid of matter. The cube thinks of the pillar. Not in that way. Not only in that way.
Ride over. Conjure. Riddle and code. Die hard in the cube tonight. The cube is the balcony with excess water. The cube is a shared space of reactions. We do not write history tonight but we whisper it in our sleep and see it play out on out retinas. Convulsing. A group of woke savages. Virtue sprung from the skull of this building. Build an aqueduct for change. Go.
– Tiril Hasselknippe’s FIN, July 2016