A Violent Absurdity: Valheimur at Hverfisgallerí

A Violent Absurdity: Valheimur at Hverfisgallerí

A Violent Absurdity: Valheimur at Hverfisgallerí

Valheimur – a world is created, one that has semblances to our natural order and the social stories our cultures echo, yet is a product and figment of artistic imagination. In Sigurður Ámundason and Matthías Rúnar Sigurðsson recently opened exhibition at Hverfisgallerí, surreal narratives collide between the boundaries of reality and the imaginary in a combination of color, pencil, and stone. The artists, Sigurður and Matthías, shared their perspectives with me. 

Sigurður: We know each other very well and for a long time we have been following each others work and process. Both of us are very diligent and patient with our practices and have a taste for detail. The day before the opening Matti mentioned it sort of felt like walking inside a hall of a palace of some weird wizard in another dimension. I guess that explained it best for me too. 

Matthías: Me and Sigurður have been friends for a long time… I think they [the works]  have many things in common and some differences as well. Drawing is important for both of us. The subject matter of our work is similar. It comes from the same place.

S: Drawing comes extremely naturally to me, it was a big part of my childhood.  I would draw in class instead of paying attention and much of my spare time I would dream of stories to make into novels or films. When I graduated from the Art Academy in 2012 I got into large renaissance paintings and wanted to capture the epic and romanticism of those works, but I knew I had to do it in a different fashion than them, because now it’s the 21st century and you have to speak about your own time. 

Sigurður´s compositions are fantastical in their perspectives and don’t literally “make sense”, combining often confused narratives. A snapshot of the imagery he throws together in his drawings: machinery, mystical waves, staged home scenes, snapshots of photographs, a beach, skyscrapers, mountainous landscapes, larger than life godly figures, a classroom, a road, distorted cars, skulls, and endlessly reiterating man spurting blood out of his chest, a swimming pool,  graphic flames, a woman with child, a headless man. The list goes on.

S: It’s always hardest for me to start on a drawing, if it doesn’t begin well I get sceptical and will often erase and start over until the figure or landscape I’ll be basing the work on feels right. I usually draw the outline of a head or the eyes and if I don’t like the shape I don’t carry on with it, instead I just search until I draw something I can work with. Because I never do sketches beforehand and every piece is in a way spontaneous I find it important to feel connected to the first stages of each work. Later on when the work is taking shape and starting a life of its own, the process feels kind of like puzzling a work all together, one scene or figure at a time, or playing chess with myself or with the artwork. 

The pencil strokes are wild and intense up close, but appear smooth and refined at a distance, like a painting. Warped perspectives draw you into the center of the work. Vaguely recognizable structures morph into a new scene and different perspective, the objects all connected by a never ending pencil line. 

There is a violence to this work, both in its content and subject, and in its form, from the chaos to the splitting and distortion of recognizability. One form flows into the other, creating, informing, determining, and coexisting with all other elements of the work. Where do these creations stem from? From the inner depth of his thoughts? An alternate reality of endlessly repeating iterations that melt together into a soup of associations. 

S: I hate violence in real life, obviously, but I find it different in art. I think there is a demon or demons inside of us all and we need to speak about them. By talking about them out loud we in a way diminish the power they have on us. I like the idea of normalising or talking about our flaws and weaknesses. I for instance have had a huge anger problem; I am OCD and I often have a minority complex over the most trivial things. I want to speak about these things because that is what is underneath my exterior, what bothers me and prevents me from happiness. And in a sense I think art is here for this, or at least partly. I also think that people can relate to it because they also have their demons and/or witness them in others. The absurd most often represents emotions in my work, possibly because emotions make everything absurd, life is extremely simple but made extremely complicated by our perplexing human nature. I’d like to point out that in all of my works there is always (or mostly) a force of hope as well to balance against the aggressions.

Sigurður´s drawings feel like what dreams would be if they were pulled out of subconscious into reality, into a tangible image, a blurring and melting of one form into a next adventure that you’re not quite sure where ends or begins. These fantastical narratives are almost eeries at times. They contain moments of a distinct structure that disappears into the whole of chaos, a black hole of colors and shapes. Chaos, yet it is all perfectly connected, in its pristinely illogical order. There is beauty in something so illogical, incomprehensible.  

S: I always have my eyes open for anything I find stunning or interesting, sometimes when I hear an intensely beautiful symphony by Beethoven or Arvo Part I feel like I want to be apart of it and that often translates into the epic or majestic in my work. The same goes for anything else that affects me; weather, its urban decay, or a sunset over a mountain. The aggressive notes of my work often stem from my own inner angst. My day to day problems are not huge compared to those who are truly suffering but I do find it extremely important for every human being to deal with their problems if they’re big or small.

What does this exaggerated and extreme nature, the agony in these drawn narratives, say about the human condition? – in that these works are more about our own agony, our own mental turmoils, nightmares, brought out onto paper. 

S: There’s always some sort of commentary about humanity and the human experience, both the hardships and pain that can be found in the mundanity of everyday life and the victory that can arise from choosing the “right path”. Visually I find myself drawn to epic scenes, brutalistic architecture and science fiction as well as disfigured beings that are somehow morphing into their surroundings. Time often seems to play apart in my work and duality especially. I like for instance the duality of the extreme versus the casual and mixing them together, perhaps in order to underline the importance of what we call mundane or “not important”.

Matthías’ sculptures are equally fantastical and brutalistic, in their own sense, and open up for narratives of absurdity as well, albeit a bit more quietly. They reference to gods and mythical stories, tribal, tombstones, totems, places of worship. One lies on the ground, like a ruin, suggesting something archeological in nature. There is a solemness to the sculptures, but there is also a certain humor to them, like the absurdity of Sigurður’s work.

M: First I find a stone to carve. I sketch and draw so that is where I get the ideas for my sculptures most of the time. Sometimes I plan what the next sculpture will look like and then I might get a stone of a specific type cut in specific dimensions. Other times I take a stone that I have found lying around somewhere and see what I can do with that. Since carving is all about removing excess material, the idea must fit inside the stone. Usually I try to memorize the idea I want to carve instead of having a drawing in front of me, unless it’s on the stone itself. I like drawing the sculpture when I’m not carving it, to keep the idea in my mind. I always carve outside and I use every tool that is available to me, such as grinders, hammers and chisels. I use a mask so I don’t inhale the dust. Carving stone is time consuming and it can also be hard work so it’s all about patience.

It is as if these totems speak to generations from another time, but what time? A mythic and epic created from fantasy, from the mind. Each viewer will make their own cultural associations; perhaps some connect them to the grotesqueness of the gothic period, like gargoyle figures. 

I like to combine the characteristics of animals, objects and humans to make anthropomorphised characters. They can resemble those in a folk tale or some mythology or maybe a movie. I have always had an interest in mythology and stories of the supernatural so it wouldn’t surprise me if I draw some influence from that. It can be hard to say where the influence comes from, but it must come from life and my experience of that.

The sculptures have a historical, monumental feel to them, like they are out of some sort of Viking or mythological history. The solid nature of stone contains an ominous presence in the exhibition space. 

M: One thing I like about stone carving is the permanence. The stones themselves are old, some of them have been here for millions of years. The sculptures will also be here for a long time in any case. When looking at stone carvings from the past the sculptor is usually forgotten and it’s as if the sculpture has always been there. I sometimes go to this fantasy of the future, imagining the sculptures in a different time period…

S: Mythology is definitely a factor that joins our work together. Both of us are interested in modern and ancient mythology and creating our own versions of these. Also translating our own personal problems with the use of mythology. We are also both using old techniques and trying to create and understand something new with them.

 

Daría Sól Andrews

 

Valheimur at Hverfisgallerí is open until October 12, 2019. 

Photo credits: Vigfús Birgisson

The last exhibition at Listastofan: a conversation with founder Martyna Daniel

The last exhibition at Listastofan: a conversation with founder Martyna Daniel

The last exhibition at Listastofan: a conversation with founder Martyna Daniel

I had a chat with the founder and director of the artist-run space Listastofan, Martyna Daniel. We talked about the closure of Listastofan, and looked back at its history, its accomplishments and its last exhibition WE RUINED EVERYTHING. 

Listastofan has been active since 2015, it hosted 63 shows plus a number of workshops, reading and all kind of art events, and has offered studios to local and international artists. It sounds like Listastofan has accomplished a lot during its four years of activity. Why is it closing?

Indeed, we hosted so many! Actually, yesterday I went back and checked in more details and on top of the 63 exhibitions we also hosted 40 life drawing sessions, many reading nights, concerts, workshops, artist talks, screenings and the total of events in four years is 167! I had not realised there were so many.
The reason why I have decided not to renew the lease is that Listastofan started as a small scale project that was supposed to be a volunteer position next to my creative work and it soon became so busy that I had to postpone all or nearly all personal projects. I feel like it is time to move on to new things and I believe it is nicer to end a project on a high note to keep good feelings from the experience.  I did not want the project to become tired and lose interest. For the last exhibition WE RUINED EVERYTHING, Claire Paugam and I worked with 6 other Iceland based artists, each of them has a humorous take on the theme of destruction. The exhibition features works by Logi Leo Gunnarsson, Anne Rombach, Þröstur Valgardsson, Sean Patrick O’Brien, Martyna Daniel, Serge Comte, Claire Paugam and Drengurinn fengurinn. Claire Paugam and I worked as curators on this last exhibition that I consider our actual goodbye statement. It is a loud scream for attention, an arrogant show, a cultural mix and very true to what Listastofan always stood by. With this last exhibition we want people to see the lightness in this closing and that walls are just walls. We now form a community of artists that are free to take on any new projects and that is powerful. 

Could you tell me something about your background? Where are you originally from? When did you move to Iceland?

I was born and raised in Geneva, Switzerland but my family is one big cultural mix. My mother is polish and my father was born in New York from South American parents so we always had many languages at home growing up. Surrounded by people of different cultures, nationalities and speaking several languages all my life, it felt natural to create an international artist run space in Reykjavik.
My dad is a musician and my mom teaches flower arrangements so vivid colours, music and art were a huge part of my upbringing. I always felt like a painter and decided to study cinematography to get a new perspective on colours and explore other ways to tell stories. I studied filmmaking in Prague and graduated with a specialisation in cinematography in 2012. Today I work as a cinematographer on freelance projects and I paint from home any chance I get.  I moved to Iceland after I graduated from film school so about 5 and a half years ago.

Sean Patrick O’Brien, ‪Tveikjari‬ (Ég kem að vörmu spori). Photo Credit: Claire Paugam

Installation view: Fix Me, My Mamma Broke Me by Martyna Daniel and Zéroticône by Serge Comte. Photo Credit: Claire Paugam.

Remains of Þröstur Valgarðsson’s performance So fucking Symbolic it hurts. Photo Credit: Claire Paugam.

How was it to establish an exhibition space in Reykjavik as a foreigner? How was it to engage the Icelandic art community in Listastofan’s activities?

It did not feel particularly difficult to establish the space as foreigners. In fact we used to joke that it felt easier than to integrate the existing art scene as a foreigner who did not study here. All the obstacles we had were things we could fix or deal with ourselves. We did not rely on anybody’s approval to move forward and that felt refreshing as young artists. Having an Icelandic name made perfect sense to us because we never wanted to be a foreign space in Iceland.  We welcomed Icelanders and foreigners alike. We wanted to engage with the Icelandic community from the very beginning and our second exhibition was a group show of three Icelandic artists. Most exhibitions we had were from artists based in Iceland, both Icelandic and foreign.

Looking back at Listastofan program, are you happy with what you have accomplished? Is there anything you are particularly proud of? And something which didn’t go as you wanted?

I am happy with the work we have accomplished. I am particularly proud of the diverse program, the inclusive ideology and the fact that we remained a space true to its roots over the past four years. We have always had a genuine interest in people’s work and since we have been running as a non-profit and all on a volunteer basis, we have managed to keep things very detached from the financial reality of art galleries. This was a real luxury and a fact that allowed us to exhibit whoever we wanted without ever taking sales, reputation or background into consideration.
We never got a chance to be disappointed because we never really had an objective that could be missed. Things happened organically and spontaneously. 

Since Listastofan was a non-profit exhibition space, how did you fund the several activities that Listastofan was carrying out?

We covered our rental and utility costs by renting desk space to artists and in some rare cases by charging an entrance fee to specific workshops or events other than exhibitions. We also received a grant from Reykjavik City two years in a row and that helped us renovate and improve our exhibition space and artist studio with new walls, lights and desk spaces. Two years ago we also did a successful Karolina Fund campaign where we raised money to sponsor all exhibitions for one year. Since all of our work was always volunteer we only needed money for rent, utilities and some rare things we needed to buy. Most of the things we have in the space were either donated or lent to us or bought second hand for very little money. Most of the work we did in the space we did ourselves to avoid extra costs as well.

Drengurinn fengurinn, Hvenær fær maður að vera í friði?. Photo Credit: Claire Paugam.

Installation view: Cut-Off Blade Looper by Logi Leó Gunnarsson, Hvenær fær maður að vera í friði? by Drengurinn fengurinn, Fix Me, My Mamma Broke Me by Martyna Daniel and Zéroticône by Serge Comte. Photo Credit: Claire Paugam.

Installation view: Insects by Claire Paugam and Pizza Tonton by Serge Comte. Photo Credit: Claire Paugam.

What was the role of Listastofan in the art scene in Reykjavik? And which exhibition space or institution is going to fill the gap left by its closure? 

To be honest we never really planned to be a gallery. We started as an independent artist studio that morphed into a workshop and exhibition space but it still remained a place of work for 8-14 people every month so the exhibition space was only one side of it. Perhaps looking back I could say it is a space that enabled creativity, a platform for young artists that always felt welcome to work and show what they are working on. It created a wonderful community of artists some of which still work together today.
I don’t think there is a need to fill the hole, projects and places come and go, people stay longer and the community that was born from Listastofan is still alive and well. All those artists will keep creating and sharing their work in new walls and that makes me happy.

When you started Listastofan, what was the plan for the future? Was it supposed to be a long-term project? Which were your goals?

When we started it in 2015 our goal was to create affordable studio and exhibition space for young artists and have a co-working space that would enable people to create and show what they do. Our goals were simple and clear and I believe we stood by that for the four years we were open. We did not know how long the project would be but we certainly intended for it to be long term and not just a short side project: we dedicated a big part of our free time, love and energy to the life of the space. 

In your opinion, has the local art scene changed during the last years? And how did you adapt to its changes?

It feels like the independent art scene got louder in recent years and I saw more independent art spaces opening up which is a great addition to the cultural diversity of Reykjavik. As Listastofan evolved in a very organic way it never felt like we had to adapt to a structure or be influenced by a trend.

 

Ana Victoria Bruno

 

Featured Image: group photo by Julie Rowland.

 

Conversations with contemporary Latvian art in Akureyri

Conversations with contemporary Latvian art in Akureyri

Conversations with contemporary Latvian art in Akureyri

Attacked by a cold morning breeze and a church bell sound of the North, I enter the Akureyri Art Museum as one of the first guests. The stairs of freshly renovated art space leads to Talaðu við mig! / Runā ar mani! / Talk to Me! titled show, a wide exhibition of 19 contemporary Latvian artists not only opening the conversations about identity and art in context of Iceland, but also emphasizing the sad reality of Latvian Museum of Contemporary Art.

The effort of reaching the 4th floor is rewarded with so well filled space that it feels like it had been designed for these art pieces. The light from the windows seems like an extra element, adding movement trough time and space. Even the overlapping sound at the beginning of the show from two video works – humorous screaming kohlrabi’s that is just about to fall in a boiling water in Kriss Salmanis’ Why I’m Not a Vegetarian and ritualized appearance in the nature in Katrina Neiburga’s Pickled Long Cucumbers – coexist so smoothly it making another piece, an experimental audio.

Overview of the exhibition. Vija Celmins, Girts Muiznieks, Arturs Berzins, Leonards Laganovskis works. Photo: Gundega Skela, 35mm film.

Ieva Epnere installation Greeen School, 2017. Photo: Gundega Skela, 35mm film.

Then comes the text. It’s focused on the historical thread between the two nations – Iceland being the first country in the world recognizing Latvia’s independence in August 1991. Understanding the show being part of the 100-year anniversary celebration of autonomy of Latvia and therefore gaining the financial ground to allow this exhibit to happen is important, but the way it’s mentioned shadows the artwork ability to breath by themselves.

Although Talk to Me! content does cover history, for example in Leonards Leganovskis’ entitled “End of the Movie” and “This is the Red Flag” grey paintings that symbolically waves to the end of Soviet Era, as Latvian art historian and politician Helena Demacova puts in her essay in the catalogue of the show “Soviet era is only one of the factors informing our identity.” All of Talk to Me! art pieces are created by well established artists, strongly carrying different messages by themselves. For instance, Latvian-American visual artist Vija Celmins with two of her sophisticated drawings Star Field and Untitled (Ocean), allowing such a simplistic (on its surface) areas as stars in the sky or endless ocean water to become alive.

The show talks about the identity and nature in relation to people, as in Kristaps Gelzis’ Washing Day. Installation of washed cloth hanging on the rope, paused in certain time with naked male photograph laying on the ground right next to it, tells the story of a young Latvian poet Klāvs Elsbergs that mysteriously fell through the window in 1987. In Ieva Epnere’s Green School multi-media piece based on groundbreaking teacher Marta Rinka who used unconventional education methods connected to nature to teach children in the past century. Both of the art pieces are presenting inspiring personalities. Unfortunately, the only way of receiving this information is through a very well-made catalogue consisting of useful essays while there is no information provided next to the pieces themselves.

Kaspars Podnieks installation dze, Prince, Birze, Pienene, Palsa, Virpa, Vel, 2015. Photo: Gundega Skela, 35mm film.

Rasa Smite, Raitis Smits, Martins Ratnieks project Talk to Me. Human-Plant Communication, 2011-2015. Photo: Gundega Skela, 35mm film.

Maija Kurseva video Checkered Order, 2016. Photo: Gundega Skela, 35mm film.

When a century ago CIA agent Cleveland Backster was recognizing plants having a “primary perception”, he was rejected by science. In 2019 Rasa Smite, Raitis Smits, Martins Ratnieks offer the piece carrying the title of the show Talk to Me! where science holds hands with art and question of whether or not (and possibly how) human-plant communication effects the growth of it. Based on a wider project by RIXC (The Center for New Media Culture), one mandarin plant is exposed to the direct interaction with the visitor. You type a message and computerized voice says it out loud to the plant. When asked my partner on what message should the plant receive from both us, he replied: “may we join you?”

Once back on the ground floor, a moment of thirst allows to notice a screen with a video running above the water source. It’s Maija Kursevas video animation Checkered Order which like an outsider is placed between ticket sales, café and reading area.

While current reality around the project of Latvian Museum of Contemporary Art has failed because of the main investors (private bank ABLV) announcing bankruptcy and therefore putting the grand project on pause, Iceland becomes the only place where an excerpt of contemporary Latvian art can be seen.

Gundega Šķēla

Artists: Andris Breže, Arturs Bērziņš, Dace Džeriņa, Ģirts Muižnieks, Ieva Epnere, Inga Meldere, Katrīna Neiburga, Kaspars Podnieks, Krišs Salmanis, Kristaps Epners, Kristaps Ģelzis, Leonards Laganovskis, Maija Kurševa, Mārtiņš Ratniks, Raitis Šmits, Rasa Šmite, Vija Celmiņš, Vilnis Zābers and Zenta Dzividzinska.

Curators: Astrida Rogule, Æsa Sigurjónsdóttir.


Cover picture: Kristaps Gelzis installation Washing Day, 1990. Photo: Gundega Skela, 35mm film.

May You Live in Interesting Times

May You Live in Interesting Times

May You Live in Interesting Times

As occurs every odd year or so, visual art works are scattered around the islands of Venice, Italy for public viewing. La Biennale di Venezia was founded by the Venice City Council in 1895 at a time when Expo shows, designed to show the achievements of the nations, were still popular and were intended for selling technology and machinery. They were very much the product of the atmosphere created by the Industrial Revolution and the expansionist times that made it possible. One of the initial goals of the Biennale was to get contemporary art going on the art market but today, in line with what is considered to be appropriate, the sale takes place at, for example, Art Basel, a month after the preview days of the Biennale. Due to the funding structure of the Biennale it is almost impossible, in many cases, for artists to participate in the exhibitions without the support of a major gallery and/or collectors.

At first the Venice Biennale was an art exhibition mostly showing Italian artists. It became an instant success drawing international attention with the first national pavilion, Belgium, opening its doors in 1907 in the Giardini park, where the Biennale was originally held and that still is one of the two main venues. The history of the Biennale and the changes it has undergone has very much been in tune with the political history of the 20th-century and the parallel developments within contemporary art. The Biennale has been an important instrument to introduce and position art from areas and nations from outside the main European powerhouse in the very center. Thus, it has served an important role in expanding the area of activity of contemporary art from being narrowly defined as belonging to Europe’s largest nations and, later, New York. As a national pavilion Iceland participated for the first time sixteen years after it became an independent nation in 1960 but it was not until 1982 that it became a regular participant. Prior to 1982, several Icelandic artists had participated in the pavilions of the other Nordic countries who continued to assist after 1982 by opening and closing the Icelandic pavilion that, due to lack of funding, had nobody to sit over the exhibition. That arrangement was not flawless and when, for example, Steina Vasulka took part in 1997, the pavilion was open less than a week because the equipment to show her video art stopped running. Iceland still does not have any fixed pavilion but has been placed at various locations and still has a long way to go to get comparable financial support from the Icelandic state as the pavilions of the other Nordic countries.

The international exhibition, today located in the original Giardini Biennale pavilion and at the Arsenale port, became established in 1972 with a specific main theme and a head-curator. While the phenomenon of a national pavilion has been increasingly criticized in parallel with criticism of nationalistic philosophies and enterprises, the international exhibition has become more important. Sigurður Guðmundsson, Ragnar Kjartansson and Ólafur Elíasson are the few Icelandic artists that have been included in the main exhibition. Therefore, this year’s controversial participation of Icelandic-Swiss artist Christoph Büchel is a significant happening for the Icelandic art scene. His participation is part of a complex and multi-layered process piece that began last year at the Manifesta Biennale in Sicily. The part that appears in the Venice Biennale is the shipwreck Barca Nostra or Our Ship. It is a small fishing boat that sank in the Mediterranean in 2015 with almost a thousand refugees drowning as they were stuck in the small ship hold. The wreck is located at the sandwich bar of the Arsenale where guests sit down and chat and enjoy the sunshine while viewing the beautiful fortified Medieval buildings of the port and naval area that laid the foundation for Venice’s commercial and military fortunes. Venice was after all the first international financial center and it was in this period that the Venetian Murano glass beads travelled as world trade currency all over the world to become indigenous peoples’ material of choice for crafting jewellery. By underlining the age old co-operation between merchants and the military in European expansion and domination, the magnificent Arsenale becomes a stark reminder on how Europeans’ exploitation of world resources has enriched Europe’s cultural and economic life up to the present.

It is not surprising that Büchel’s Barca Nostra has been a provocation to many. As a rule, he never places a name tag or explanations near to his works and this procedure has been very much critiqued in the case of the shipwreck. Critical voices have repeatedly mentioned it as the reason why the work is not functioning in the way what they suppose is the artist’s intention. The Ugandan writer Siima Itabazza, for example, created a petition on change.org requesting that the wreck be removed on the grounds that no context is provided near the work. She maintains that by doing so, the boat is reduced to an object, an attraction to stop by and a background for selfies. For sure, the location supports this kind of viewing. The shipwreck fits perfectly into the environment which is still in use as a shipping route. Indeed, it wasn’t really until the word spread out that the ship was Büchel’s work that people started talking about it as an art piece. But word-of-mouth has long been a part of the mechanism of contemporary art, and most works actually live most of their lives as stories. According to Büchel himself, the reason for not including a label and/or explanations is that he does not want the character and reputation of the artist to draw attention from the work itself. At a venue such as the Venice Biennale, where reputation of artists plays a major role, the lack of a label can be put into context. The quantity of works are so overwhelming that people read explanations and labels in a hurry and take in the aesthetics and function of the works in a very quick way. In such a situation, the works should work instantly with the help of the label. What happens to an audience’s criticality in such a situation? Is it the responsibility of the artist and curator to explain the work instantly or could it be the responsibility of the audience to take the time to study more complex and multi-layered works, the context of its location and reception? This can certainly be debated. The reception of some of the audience to the work, as first and foremost an object that should be appreciated without familiarizing oneself with the context, is very revealing. Dramatic words have been used where the character of the artist has been dragged through the mud and the work been condemned as horrifying, disgusting and inappropriate. It is, to some extent, understandable. As Siima Itabazza points out, many used the boat, the mass grave, as a backdrop for selfies and spoke about it as an object, its colors and form. In light of this, one may ask whether this disclosure is not exactly the intended function of the work, how the work is interpreted, and how it is discussed. It functioned as a mirror to the Biennale itself and its guests, the beneficiaries of the world privileges. After all explanations of today’s wars, economic degradation, political persecution, and global warming disasters – the main reasons for people to flee – can be traced back to European expansion and the subsequent industrial revolution.

In this case, however, one cannot ignore who Christoph Büchel is. He is a white European, middle-aged male artist who is represented by a major contemporary art gallery. The fact that he himself belongs to a group of privileged people cannot be avoided. It is not possible to write a critique of Barca Nostra without considering what has been named in post-colonial critique as the white man’s burden and the later version, the white man’s help complex that is considered to be a continuation of the colonial thought. Siima Itabazza points out that because of who the artist is the work cannot be seen as anything else than a continuation of white violence against blacks and the self-appointed right to appropriate bodies and the death of black people for consumption of their audience. Thus, although Büchel tries, the work cannot be independent of its creator. In socially critical works, the status of the artist himself must always be taken into consideration. What is his status? Is he talking for himself or for the ‘other’ or maybe both? What structures are there in place that give him the power to speak for ‘others’? How is his co-operation with this ‘other’ happening? What does it say about the structures that control visibility within the art world? Who are being listened to? Who gets the attention? On what grounds? About whom is art history being written? Who is showing? Who can show you? According to the catalog, collaborators are, among others, Arci Porco Rosso, an association of young left activists in Palermo who have been assisting asylum seekers and refugees. Three refugees receive a special thanks. They are Batch Mballow, Amadou Niang and Kamal El Karkouri. The writer of this article indeed met Amadou Niang along with Icelandic collaborators of the production team, on a church square in Palermo last summer, where they had set up a table and were presenting the project to the citizens and seeking to finance the project by citizen participation.

When considering the work, another related question arises regarding the right to show a mass grave. When is a place or an object a mass grave that belongs primarily to the relatives of the victims of the tragedy, and when does it become appropriate for the mass grave to become a symbol or monument for a larger group? Where does the line lie? There are other examples of mass-grave attractions, both in Auschwitz and in Chernobyl, to mention well known examples within Europe. As this is being written, the elections for the European Union Parliament have recently been completed with the well-intended propaganda of those who want to keep Europe united in peace and co-operation. It is, however, not entirely a happy story. Peace in Europe and economic co-operation has been at the expense of those outside these borders. Refugees – mostly children – continue to die in masses at the border even though the attention of mainstream-media has been directed elsewhere. The increasing representation of right-wing populism and fascists in European parliaments ensures that Europe’s ocean border will become even tighter in the near future. What has been said to be the so-called solution to the refugee problem has, in fact, meant that thousands of people have drowned in the Mediterranean or died on drifting boats that no one comes to rescue despite seafarer signals being send out. The Mediterranean has become the world’s most dangerous border and, in fact, a massive oceanic grave. Yet, tourists continue to enjoy the ocean and take selfies with the beautiful mass grave as a backdrop. The largest reason for those deaths is that Italian authorities and the European Union have found a number of ways to make rescue operations a criminal act and many who have acted according to the law, now face many years of imprisonment. To make things worse, the European Union has supported the Libyanese government in making it easier for them to catch people on the run, whether at sea or on land. This is happening despite the fact that it has been confirmed by the United Nations that refugees stuck in Libya are becoming, more often than not, victims of the slave trade and there is even talks about organized crime with organ trade. This has been going on without the interference of relevant international organizations, but the latest news is that a group of human rights lawyers have now sued the European Union for the International Criminal Court in The Hague for crimes against humanity or, in other words, for direct responsibility for the death of these people. The Venice Biennale, which takes place on these borders, is not only visited by human rights activists, but brings together all kinds of people who have in common to belong to the privileged group of the world. While these visitors are generally liberal and condemn hard attitudes towards refugees, it cannot be overlooked that these same people are the power-elite of Europe, whether we look at it in respect to having direct power or as the effects of wealth or knowledge, education and position in society.

Nonetheless, there is no doubt of the fact that, like the art market in general, the Venice Biennale has been a white man’s playground. The Icelandic participation is no exception. After a long series of male artists participating, it was in 1997 that the first Icelandic female artist, Steina Vasulka, who had revolutionized video art two decades earlier, represented Iceland. In the 21st century, Rúri and Gabríela Friðriksdóttir have also participated, and later, Libia Castro as part of the artist-duo Ólafsson/Castro, and finally Katrín Sigurðardóttir. Hrafnhildur Arnardóttir is the sixth woman to represent Iceland while over twenty male artists have been given the opportunity. With Iceland being known for statistically being world champions of equal gender opportunities it is not surprising that it attracted a great deal of attention when Ralph Rugoff, this years curator of the main exhibition, made an artist list public, revealing that over 50% of the artists participating were people who do not define themselves as male. In this way, the curator took a step in the spirit of the historical role of the Biennale to expand the scope of contemporary art, this time going against the gender boundary of the art market. This article will come to an end with a series of works by some of these non-male artists that drew the attention of the journalist. 


 Christoph Büchel’s Barca Nostra by the sandwich bar in the Arsenale.

 The Swiss sculptor Carol Bove was this years’ discovery of the journalist. Her sculptures are a twist of the clean lines of modernistic sculptures where she uses the aesthetic and semiotics of the dent, the bend, the pull, the roll, the squeeze and other types of transformative actions as her own language. The color palette creates the illusion that the steel she uses is really soft and flexible material and the sculptures demand that ones’ body, eyes and mind glide around the work.

 

Nabuqi is a young Chinese artist that also uses steel in her work but in a different way. She uses found objects and creates stages where she plays with simulations in an artistic research on how we connect to our environment. In the work Destination from 2018 she uses an advertising billboard with a photoshopped picture of a paradise decorated with palm trees but also with fake plants in a work that plays with the interplay of fantasy and simulations. Promises are given without the opportunity to be able to fulfil them.

 

Zanele Muholi´s works Somnyama Ngonyama, Hail the Dark Lioness stole the attention of the journalist in the Arsenale part. They were installed as giant wallpapers and scattered around the exhibition area while in the Giardini they were shown as smaller framed photographs. Zanele prefers to be called a visual activist rather than an artist and identifies as non-binary. Their work looks at race, sexuality and gender by focusing on the black LGBT community. In their work Muholi exaggerates the blackness in their skin color and in doing that, reclaims their own ‘blackness’ that is constantly being played out or performed by others. 

 The Murano glass sculpture of the Nigerian artist Otobong Nkanga in the Arsenale was an interesting investigation into a local raw material that played an important part in the colonial trade history. It reminded the journalist of Otobong’s work about the glimmering mica material at the Berlin Biennale in 2014. Mica is the material that made the church towers of Europe glow in the sun while in her home country it made the ground glitter. As the journalist has been seeing a lot of installation and sculptural work of Otobong in the last few years it was a pleasure to see Otobong’s works drawn on paper in the Giardini part. Otobong’s contribution won a special jury prize together with the work of Mexican artist Teresa Margolles.

 The Silver Lion went to a young artist the jury considers very promising:

Haris Epaminonda. Haris (39) is originally from Cyprus but is based in Berlin. The work VOL. XXVII. is a new installation in mixed media in which she mixes found objects, both artistic and every day, and spins a web of meaning that is both personal and historical but always ambiguous. 

 Another artist that is based in Berlin is the well-known Hito Steyrl, professor at UdK art school and representative of Germany in the Biennale in 2015. Since then, her renown has risen fast with her name coming up in a variety of contexts. Her work at this years’ biennale is similar in form as her work in the past years, a complex multi-channel video installation where emphasis is laid on the structure of the installations. Her new work in Giardini, This is the Future, takes over an entire room; her other new work, Leonardo´s submarine, found in the Arsenale, is smaller in scope. Both installations appear at first glance as kitsch pictures which is no surprise as the images are shaped by an algorithm that is reminiscent of amateur photo filters. In the Arsenale, Hito puts forward a question about what role artificial intelligence will play in our future lives with a giant structure that refers to the walking path structures that are put up when floods take over Venice. In the Giardini, the audience, on the other hand, sits on few one-seat benches inside a small 3-channel video installation where she considers the connection between Venice and Italy in the past and present militaries.

Hulda Rós Guðnadóttir

 

 

Photocredits: Hulda Rós Guðnadóttir

Cover picture: Bather by Carol Bove, May You Live in Interesting Times, Venice Biennale 2019.

The 58th Venice Biennial is open until November the 14th, 2019.

https://www.labiennale.org/en/art/2019

„Chromo Sapiens“: Hrafnhildur Arnardóttir/Shoplifter’s installation at the 58th Venice Biennale

„Chromo Sapiens“: Hrafnhildur Arnardóttir/Shoplifter’s installation at the 58th Venice Biennale

„Chromo Sapiens“: Hrafnhildur Arnardóttir/Shoplifter’s installation at the 58th Venice Biennale

The Icelandic pavilion at the 58th Venice Biennale features Hrafnhildur Arnardóttir/Shoplifter’s installation Chromo Sapiens, an astonishing hair cave, a monstrous but at the same time a soft and colourful being which embraces the visitors into its warm and comfortable interior.

Chromo Sapiens is structured in three different sections representing a metaphorical evolution from Homo Sapiens to “Chromo Sapiens”, a journey conducted through exposure to different tones of colours prompts an escalation of emotional responses in the visitors. Dark tones predominate the first section of the installation; Primal Opus, which recalls the inside of a volcano, or a rock cave, elements of raw Icelandic nature: our adventure starts in the deep inside of earth, as primitive beings. Walking into the second section; Astral Gloria, an explosion of neon bright colours takes place around us, instantaneously we can feel our senses activated, curiosity and excitement take over our spirit, yet we realise how powerful colours can be and how much energy we can get from them. Colours fade to white and light pastel tones in the third and last section; in Opium Natura, calm floods our body as we experience an ecstatic moment of pure elevation of the soul and achieved awareness of the process we have been conducted through. 

Chromo Sapiens is a fully immersive installation, it acts on three of our senses: the colours mutating from room to room feed our eyes, the installation is soft at the touch, and the Icelandic metal band HAM’s 24 channel surround sound piece accompanies our experience activating both our ears and our bodies with powerful deep bases: the sound waves resonate as if they were coming from inside our own organism, the piece extends inwards into our body.

While Shoplifter’s previous works usually consisted of a single jungle-like installation of bright coloured furry elements, it is interesting to see that Chromo Sapiens broke the uniformity of her previous shows, and articulated a journey of experiences through the work, an exciting evolvement through different steps. The installation makes use of different colours and music to prompt diverse reactions in the viewers, and in this regard it recalls Wassily Kandinsky, Paul Klee and the masters of the beginning of the last century who had studied the symbolic meaning of colours and shapes, as well as their effects on human beings. Hrafnhildur Arnardóttir/Shoplifter’s work seems in a way a tridimensional development of their bidimensional experimentations. 

Beside colours, the overwhelming size of the installation and the material Shoplifter uses play an important role in her work and in the experience of the viewer. However, this furry and immersive artwork comes with a dark side: the whole installation is made of synthetic hair, a quite important detail which arises concerns about the environmental impact of the work. Shoplifter’s installations are supposed to “evoke the desire to return to nature in a modern culture where we are drowning in artificial matter”[1] , but is it worth using a ton of plastic which will contribute to the environmental issues our planet is facing? 

Installation view of Chromo Sapiens, the Icelandic Pavilion at the 58th International Art Exhibition – La Biennale di Venezia 2019. Photo: Elisabet Davidsdottir © Hrafnhildur Arnardóttir / Shoplifter.

Installation view of Chromo Sapiens, the Icelandic Pavilion at the 58th International Art Exhibition – La Biennale di Venezia 2019. Photo: Elisabet Davidsdottir © Hrafnhildur Arnardóttir / Shoplifter.

Installation view of Chromo Sapiens, the Icelandic Pavilion at the 58th International Art Exhibition – La Biennale di Venezia 2019. Photo: Ugo Carmeni © Hrafnhildur Arnardóttir / Shoplifter.

Installation view of Chromo Sapiens, the Icelandic Pavilion at the 58th International Art Exhibition – La Biennale di Venezia 2019. Photo: Elisabet Davidsdottir © Hrafnhildur Arnardóttir / Shoplifter. 

The climate crisis is the most pressing global emergency today, and it has modified the individuals’ approaches to plastic materials, arising a consciousness of the waste production at a global level. Being an artist and having the opportunity to take part at the Venice biennale means having the chance to convey a message to the world, what message is the installation communicating? Even though not every artist has to adopt a political or social focus in the work, I strongly believe every action we take in the world is political, and artists do have a certain responsibility over their actions and the material they decide to use. 

This installation prompts bitter-sweet feelings in the viewers, it satisfies our senses while we are there but then we walk away with these concerns and thoughts in our heads. However, Hrafnhildur Arnardóttir/Shoplifter explained to me that she started to use synthetic material when she felt the need to make bigger installations, and synthetic material meets the characteristic she needed for this purpose: it is easier to get, it costs less and allows her to play more with colours. She also assures that she recycles and reuses the material for different site specific installation, since it morphs and it can be manipulated easily. 

The press release of the pavilion states that “Chromo Sapiens is a visceral work: it evokes one’s desire to return to nature in a modern culture that is overwhelmed by artificial matters. […] The artist explores society’s obsession with beautification juxtaposed with its fascination with the grotesque”[2] . Unfortunately the artist’s intentions are undercurrent to the powerful installation which dominates viewers’ experience: such a powerful and overwhelming installation leaves little space to engage in an active critic, creating a gap between what the artist wants to communicate through her work and what the viewers read in it. The Venice Biennial is a great yet hard platform for artists, in fact it is one of the biggest shows in the world, visitors get overwhelmed by the huge amount of artworks they are exposed to, and in order for an artist to stand out in amongst the others and to be noticed, the artwork needs to be really impressive. Chromo Sapiens does its job, it has got a good international coverage and it is mentioned as one of the must-see pavilions of this year’s Venice Biennial in several articles, however it often ends up to be experienced as an enjoyable exaltation of the artificial and of the pop culture, a colourful and physical sensations fest, a totalising and fully positive experience, while the artists’ comments on the modern day society are often overlooked.

 

Ana Victoria Bruno


[1]- http://icelandicartcenter.is/projects/venice-biennale/hrafnhildur-arnardottir-shoplifter-represents-iceland-at-58th-venice-biennale/ 

[2] The press release can be read here: https://www.invenicetoday.com/en/exhibitions/Biennale/Icelandic-Pavilion-Iceland-Venice-Biennale-of-Art.htm#.XWzdyS2cY6U

Cover photo: Installation view of Chromo Sapiens, the Icelandic Pavilion at the 58th International Art Exhibition – La Biennale di Venezia 2019. Photo: Ugo Carmeni © Hrafnhildur Arnardóttir / Shoplifter.

The Venice Biennale runs to  November the 24th, 2019. The Icelandic Pavilion is open from Tuesday to Sunday from 12:00 t0 18:00 at Spazio Punch, Giudecca 800.

Dreaming While Curating Mild Humidity – The (Digital) Age of Aquarius / Litils Háttar Væta – Stafræn öld vatnsberans

Dreaming While Curating Mild Humidity – The (Digital) Age of Aquarius / Litils Háttar Væta – Stafræn öld vatnsberans

Dreaming While Curating Mild Humidity – The (Digital) Age of Aquarius / Litils Háttar Væta – Stafræn öld vatnsberans

The digital world is a dream world of a sort. We are online in virtual reality not geographically locatable yet still encased in a persona as an extension of our offline selves.  The body is often seen as a container for the mind. When Donna Haraway expressed the idea of the cyborg as a hybrid entity between human and technology and/or information networks, she shifted away from the idea of the human being as the sole bearer of consciousness.

Where does our dreaming body end and virtual reality begin?

It is not unusual to closely connect the art world and dreamworld, especially as artworks have an ability to connect many disparate layers of reality on a personal and social level. However, art essentially is at a distance from reality, which may possibly make it more easy to heighten certain fictive aspects of reality.

Geirþrúður Finnbógadóttir Hjörvar, Real Estate #2, 2019. Photo by Gústav Geir Bóllason.

Two artists, Geirþrúður Finnbógadóttir Hjörvar and Bryndís Hrönn Ragnarsdóttir, approached me with an exhibition proposal based on fluid networks of the internet, esotericism, and poetic conceptualism under the title Mild Humidity – The (Digital) Age of Aquarius. Based on the model of a horizontal network (also fluid) without hegemony, the artists chose the curator rather than the curator choosing the artists. I was intrigued.

I had first been exposed to the idea of the Age of Aquarius when I was younger in books about the Mayan Calendar by Jose Arguelles, for example. The Mexican archaeologist writes about how the Mayan Calendar aligns with the ages of the Western Zodiac, marking shifts in epochs of humanity from the perspective of both cultures. There is also the prevalent idea that the Age of Aquarius is one in which humanity will be able to manipulate their own dreams as one would in a lucid dream, waking up to the fact that reality is a sort of waking dream state. Perhaps the Age of Aquarius brings with it an ability to sense inner states such as the dream state as fluidly as we navigate virtual realities.

Exhibition view, Geirþrúður Finnbógadóttir Hjörvar, Real Estate #2, 2019. Photo by Gústav Geir Bóllason.

In this sense, the dream I had while curating the exhibition in a former herring factory transformed into an exhibition space on the North coast of Iceland, Verksmiðjan á Hjalteyri, is worth mentioning as information about the exhibition that is not critique, review, nor part of the exhibition text, but more of a side note from the curatorial journal. The former herring factory still holds traces of its former life in the upper floors where the herring (considered the blood of the nation as it was the main economic support for decades and actually has red blood) was taken by conveyor belt from the boats and processed. The strong presence of the exhibition space’s former incarnation added to a feeling of the exhibition taking place inside a living entity that operated with its own particular logic.

In Pétur Már Gunnarson’s iPad (2019), an ink print of a scanned image picks up the smudges of the users’ fingers tracing the everyday operation of the device. The outlines mark the importance of the fingers (also known as digits) in operating digital environments. When the device is on it is literally the world in your hand. When off, it becomes a black mirror with traces of your bodily presence. The question of depth in relation to the internet is brought to attention as the image is reminiscent of photos taken from outer space.

The Age of Aquarius brings with it many disparate connotations. Chief among them is an association with an era always on the brink of arriving. The actual dates of its arrival are contested, as are definitive statements on what will happen once it arrives, or what it means now that we are possibly living in the Age of Aquarius. While not being strictly part of astronomy, the Age of Aquarius is part of an astrological age occurring because of the cycle of precessions of the equinoxes. Each cycle lasts 25,800 years, equivalent to the passing of the 12 constellations of the Zodiac. About every 2,150 years, the sun moves towards the sign of a new zodiac constellation. The Age of Aquarius, therefore, begins when the Spring Equinox moves from the constellation of Pisces into the constellation of Aquarius. The dates for when this occurs/will occur varies from 1447 to 3597 AD.

The idea is that each astrological age affects humanity, therefore influencing cultural tendencies. With Aquarius being associated with electricity, cybernetics, democracy, humanitarianism, modernization, rebellion, and science fiction, it is thought by many astrologers that the 20th century is a likely time for the arrival of the Age of Aquarius or at least a precursor. In Mild Humidity – The (Digital) Age of Aquarius, the aesthetic of this ever-elusive tomorrow is embraced by using water as a metaphor for the subconscious. The digital logic of contemporaneity is built on the fluidity of information, the same fluidity that guides the subconscious. In this way, telepathy and the open narrative systems of the internet are the key components to a hive mentality of networks that usher in a new era.

After a conversation with one of the artists who wrote the proposal, Geirþrúður Finnbógadóttir Hjörvar, elements of her sculptural installations, as she told me about her process in creating them, weaved their way into a dream sequence after a few days of my researching the topics at hand. In some ways the dream sequence allowed me to visually and mentally comprehend the overlapping of contexts that the artist was intending to realize in her artworks, Glass Matrix and Real Estate #2, in a dream logic before actualizing them in the space of the exhibition. Because of the nature of the subject matter of the artist’s inquiry, this seemed especially fitting.

Pura Sangre, Film Poster. Source: Senalcolombia.tv

Pura Sangre, or Pure Blood, by Luis Ospina, is a film that is seen as a key work of Tropical Goth cinema that marks a development in the work of Grupo de Cali filmmakers in a shift from documentary work to narrative feature films. Pura Sangre is a satire on Colombian landowners and the vampirism of Latin American capitalism, inspired by a story from Ospina’s youth, an urban legend about a vampiric figure who preyed on the blood of young men. In the film, this vampiric figure is a bedridden sugar tycoon who communicates with the outside world via closed-circuit Television while being kept alive by blood transfusions.

In Geirþruður’s Real Estate #2, black and white photographs of real estate advertisements and real estate agencies taken by the artist in Cali, Colombia have been pasted on MDF board at specific mirrored angles to create a self-supporting structure. The artist explores one definition of a matrix as being a mathematical structure while also alluding to its topology which can be considered as space on a grid. The artist plays with the idea of an ´X´ and ´Y’ axis as indexes for Cartesian space that determine our perception of reality by placing a board at an intersection, therefore, becoming an axis. The physical action of constructing a building is made transparent in the work. Pasted on top of the matrix she has built is the concept of private property in real estate. The black and white photography alludes to the real estate enterprise while harking to the genre of Tropical Goth and the link between political parables and vampiric tales of power relations.

For Glass Matrix, the artist told me about her plan to use a screenshot from a digitized reproduction of the classic painting The Ghent Altarpiece (The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb), dating to 1482, the most famous work by the Dutch Van Eyck brothers. I then read an article about recent discoveries on the painting revealing drastic differences in the overpaint vs the original layers. And, after watching Pura Sangre, I dreamed that the opening sequence of technicians preparing the decrepit sugar tycoon for his blood transfusions were the same technicians analyzing the overpaint on the painting.

 

 Jan van Eyck, The Ghent Altarpiece (all 12 panels), 1432, oil on panel, 461 x 350 cm

In Geirþrúður’s sculptural installation, Glass Matrix, the artist continues to explore the meaning of a matrix from the perspective of origin myths as well as that of modern-day information technology, in this case, the digitization of paintings. The topology of space is examined as it occurs at these intersections. The artist uses a standard retail fitting made for display in shop windows, with its grid-like shape, as a matrix itself – one could say it is the matrix of techno-capitalism in which we are all embedded, and in which the idea of private property holds precedence. Intersecting the glass grid is a foam plane on which is pasted a screenshot of an open web browser of a digitization of a detail of The Ghent Altarpiece, an unidentifiable scan of Eve’s womb.

Geirþrúður Finnbógadóttir Hjörvar, Real Estate #2, 2019. Photo by Gústav Geir Bóllason.

In the dream, I approached the glass retail display case, as described to me by Geirþrúður in real life, expecting to find real estate brochures in black and white, the only kind that had been printed in the last thirty years. Unceremoniously, all real estate images had been turned into black and white images as though the geographical point at which they existed had become taken out of what could be considered a fully human experience with all the color in the living flesh that living not in the context of dust can bring. In the dream logic, one lived in a reality of flesh-colored hues when living outside the context of dust. Living outside of the context of this dust (likely, a dream texture referencing cocaine) meant living in an empire not fueled by the zombified desires and inflated infatuations of a dust taken so far from its plant source that it has been stripped of any earthly matrices.

The ones who furnish the masses with the dust turn into vampires by their repeated cutting through a plastic commotion until the dust has soaked all of their blood, and slowly all their blood is replaced by a colorless space reserved for dust. This is what makes them such good real estate moguls; they reserve space for dust inside their body as a mechanism that keeps them alive. Naturally, it happens outside in the form of real estate.

Jan van Eyck, The Ghent Altarpiece (detail from central panel), 1432, oil on panel, 461 x 350 cm

In the dream, I was surprised to find that the glass real estate display case, true to the reality of the actual work, had been cut into by a blown-up image of the Van Eyck painting of a lamb within a larger matrix of works. It was as if the image of the Van Eyck painting was a knife that arrived with force to wedge itself into the glass case, causing no dishevelment to the structure of the displace case, besides the presence of this new matrix of space that created new correlations with the glass plane that divides the cubic squares of the display case in a new topology of imagined real estate brochures and the representation of the surface of this 15th century painting under the auspices of the kind of scans available in 2019.

Geirþrúður Finnbógadóttir Hjörvar, Real Estate #2, 2019. Photo by Gústav Geir Bóllason.

The image cutting into the glass real estate was a detail of the lamb on the central panel with the area behind the lamb’s left hear blown up into a mass of grey digitized texture, arriving from a long way off in either its pixelization or its trip from the past to the present. I had read recently, in waking life, that an overpaint layer had been discovered on the lamb’s face, laughing at myself mimicking the two expressions in my own manner. Two side by side images shows the lamb in its original form with a neutral expression, indifferent, allowing the story of Christ to play itself out unhindered. What had been painted over the lamb’s face was a few marks here and there that turned the expression into one of grave concern and alarm, a direct message to viewers that they should be alarmed at the unraveling of historic events as well.

Detail of the head of the lamb before and after treatment.

The texture of information that gives a sense of realness to a matrix of space and how the textures of each matrix allow each other to exist at multifocal points began to reveal itself. It began in the same manner of the opening of Pura Sangre: Blood spattered the walls of the boarding house. Walking amongst the rooms one could find, unsurprisingly, more blood and the slain bodies it belonged to, along with roosters nonchalantly investigating the scene.

The real film sequence continued in the dream sequence. In the red light of a photosynthesis lab, a technician developed film with precision, running his fingers over the final development in search for a clue.

Still from Pura Sangre (1982). Source: Youtube

The role of the technician became parallel with a new role easily developed from that of a film lab technician: that of flossing the teeth of animals so that they could speak the same language as humans. The solo technician became one of many in a team devoted to the process of rendering this possibility. They began with the construction of a kind of marionette, an invention that made it possible for the technicians to hold the control-piece with one hand. The control-piece was attached to several looping layers of dental floss that created a canopy in which the head of four different animals could be placed.

Of course, the rooster that had been found investigating the bloody scene at the boarding house was the first one to try it out. They opened the beak of the rooster and placed the loops of dental floss inside it while with other nodes they attached to some bits of feathers for effect. The notion they were exploring was that the dental floss could activate the linguistic abilities of the rooster because of the specific texture in the floss, the tiny hint of spearmint, and the friction it created with the teeth of other species.

Alas, the rooster was silent. The floss began to untangle itself like the electricity had been turned off while the rooster flitted its head right to left and front to back, unconcerned, but curious about the trial and error.

Then came an Irish Setter, with the same results and even less curiosity involved in the process in which it had become involved in. The Irish Setter leaped down with the apparatus attached, tongue extended, tongue not giving way to any notions of speaking another language. It was a matter of teeth, that could be seen for certain.

Next came a rabbit; again, the same unconcern but willingness to participate. The teeth were a part of the whole matrix of nose and ears in a way that made the rabbit wiggle and sniff and leap away. Again, a matter of the mouth structure, the tongue, the opening and closing of the lips and teeth.

Finally, the lamb arrived, calmly and judiciously, it stood waiting to be involved with the apparatus of dental floss. The technicians and I stood around him taking notes and observing how language might erupt from such textures. What combining factors of bone, lip, saliva, tongue, and the crevices in between where the dental floss erupted could contribute to a poetic relation conducive to producing speech? The lamb licked his lips, getting a bit snagged on floss where it was wedged from his mouth to the heavens, but after a few licks and labiodental activation, the floss could be heard in its textured resonance give way to a grain of a voice, like a radio station tuning into a channel on Saturn, arriving from a long distance, ever-present yet not always revealed because of this sensitivity to textures, surface weaves and warps, the mind of Van Eyck as he applied the paint and made the texture, the blood and the coke heterogeneously built into the real estate, the real estate being a topology where all these things meet and erupt.

The blood spurting from the lamb’s heart in the painting was the same blood found in the 1982 thriller, creating an interstitial realm where the poetic imagery of blood was allowed to roam freely as dream logic. (Not to mention the blood of the herring that the exhibition space had been built for!) The technicians in the dream tested a new experiment about the origins of language in the soft palate of the mouth, a simple activation of gum pressure via dental floss. The dream technicians moved seamlessly amongst the investigations of the blood lab technicians in Pura Sangre and the technicians analyzing the overpaint in The Ghent Altarpiece in reality in the 21st century as though they all took place in a dimension. As Geirþrúður explored the meaning of a matrix from the perspective of origin myths and modern-day information technology in her sculptural installations, the dream tried in its own way to examine the intersections of these topologies, while also situating itself in a new topology: that of the dreamworld of the curator.

 

Erin Honeycutt

 

Sources: http://www.flanderstoday.eu/van-eycks-original-lamb-uncovered-ghent-altarpiece

Thanks to Geirþrúður for edits and feedback on relaying dream logic through narrative.

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