Current exhibitions

The fatal moment
Nanna Abell, Marie Søndergaard Lolk, Signe Frederiksen and Liv Schulman
September 21 – November 11, 2018

The fatal moment

In English: The fatal moment

About the exhibition

Reducing form for me

by Nanna Abell, Marie Søndergaard Lolk, Signe Frederiksen and Liv Schulman

And so yesterday she wondered: What is a percept? Wikipedia explains that in philosophy a percept is altogether the perceptions and sensations that survive the one that experiments them. She believes that would be the job of the work of art; keeping the experience in its body, able to leave its creator behind, and broadcast whatever fatal thing comes out to the world.
The group of perceptions and sensations that objects of art behold as transmission becomes apparent at a moment of encounter. That moment is always fatal, it defines something that becomes something else. Thus the thing that the thing was before disappears. She knows that.

Her thought lies physically in the vacuum between the surface of two planes. She looks at the window for inspiration. Not out the window, but at it. Inspiration never comes. She makes dialogues in her head wanting to place them at the transparent edge limiting the building. A life amongst dead insects and layered dust.

And also, what is a body? A wave of joy, a cold ass, a problem of imbalance, some tiny white hair, a Devil worshipper, or a request for guidance?

So… What does she know? She knows now that this planet is old. That fear absolves her from screaming “Freeze!” to people. She knows that she has a self-proclaimed passion for gel’s ability to expand into unexpected forms at sub-zero temperature. She knows that grids change rules, and that every architecture comes with an inner fashion that can be intentionally misinterpreted. She knows that the tiniest hair on her body wants her to dance, but beautiful pants are an expensive imitation of worker’s pants.

She seeks for nothing less expensive than the truth.

She knows all about bikini wax, but very little about oils. She knows that hair and blood belong to the same family. That guts and blood are from the same family. That everything which works in a nightclub, works in minimalism; butts are sculpture, immanence is god, golf sticks are fingers, information is stage.

She did many attempts to do something to a body. Her efforts and the bets she made when trying to understand objects came along with a mutilation.
But that’s just art; transformation. Like a tongue that learns a new language, it does unbelievable things. Things she never thought a tongue could do! One moment the tongue is resting, next thing she knows, it’s curling into a diabolic twist of hell.

She would like to write the autobiography of her tongue. It wouldn’t require any “thinking”. But what would it say about her? She thinks this could work. It would be more like a fatherly posture, at the end of a gathering of unexpected details.
She thinks about this when she goes to sleep. She wakes up when the lamps prolong into her face as large eyes, blinding her. In a glimpse she sees a decapitated motor biker, the head lying around, spilling a black thick matter onto the floor.

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Senast uppdaterad: 26 september 2018
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