Whether using the stars or GoogleMaps to choose walk one direction rather than another, or choosing to ingest one plant or another, each choice is an incremental step in reconstituting what our body and our mind is made up of.
Life is simply, on one level, a thinly delineated set of molecules, filtering and sorting what’s needed from its surroundings in order to cultivate the conditions for existence.
That is, they are animate, but somehow not alive.
While the Analyst only has eyes for the one thing he’s been employed to find, art is all about inadvertent concomitance—the useless attachment, the poetic side effect
the underlying impulse was to deliberately mistake the exhibition for a useful format, turning the gallery space into an orientation machine, to see what else might be revealed in the slippage
In his hat and coat he looks like a detective, or a bureaucrat—a cog in some machinery—except reptilian, as if skinless or melting.
In this world, we get to be golems for a moment, searching without agency, finding without reason
Golems are obedient, but they perform their tasks literally.
A small vacuum pump, attached to the main gallery space window. It keeps a single Citron fruit suspended behind PVC, forming an enclosure with no space or air. The assembly sustains a tension between what is on display and what meets the eye.
Rooms of sorted materials, sifted and organised into plastic and Styrofoam, matter redistributed to see what entity might emerge.
Ancient Sanskrit texts suggest purifying water by passing it through sand or coarse gravel; this system relies instead on a thin biotech membrane and household spices.
Immersed in a civilizing ritual to keep the world in check, seeking to eliminate inconsistencies and construct a ground from which to begin and end.
For us, opening up the question of what an entity such as (x) is or can be, is therefore a core concern.
Through the ages, golems have connoted anything from hope to despair.
A modified industrial ventilator with blades made of brittle glass, installed in the rear wall between the exhibition space and its back rooms and office.
The Analyst pretends to be an agent of rationality, but is blindly absorbed by the absurd allure of the lemon—that’s what makes him a golem.
Maybe follow one floating pair of atoms, as they drift further into the fluvial outreaches of your lungs, cross over the alveoli wall and hitch a ride on a red blood cell into your arteries.
Notions of ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ are easily theorised, obsessed as we are with the workings of our own heads.
The gallery suffered some damage.
A central common interest of ours, is the bifurcation of scientific, technological, business and artistic practices and the assertion that such divisions are historically specific and contingent developments.
Practically, it is a potential threat to our own mastery; it is vital that our creations remain, like golems, without agency, tragic and stupid.
It is a reductive idea of what art is, of what an exhibition is, that displays the seams of its own construction.
A semi-fictional character, in search of a perfect skin.
Can a system ever be said to be fully independent, to have a life of its own?
Though the thin skin that covers our muscles and tendons is, if flattened out, up to two square metres worth of pulsing fabric; the combined routes of the bronchi of our lungs can have a surface area of up to seventy-five square metres.
Things have been and therefore could be different
What leaches through those boundaries is, hopefully, the right molecules. A body is defined, as such, by what it is not.
Their slow leakage is an inquiry into how objects become significant, rather than what exactly they signify.
The other, unneeded molecules are ushered back the way they came.
Of course it slips, the surface becomes a field, the ground does its dizzying thing.
How did this, let us call it symbiotic relationship come about?
In the art world, value is created on similar terms: framed by the ritual context of the exhibition, with great volatility from one moment to the next, and exclusively on the basis of something like belief—both in the magic touch of the artist, and in the art system as the sanctioned purveyor of auratic objects.
the machine was now set to be sold off, it’s status resembling that of a shed skin
For us this entails building a network of people, institutions and ideas around said practice, as it develops during our conversations
Immaculacy is only a matter of context.
We have an interest in how you track and co-develop emerging fields of practice, rather than treating them as already-settled historical processes to be studied from afar.
Humans are merely another permeable sac, punctuated at either end by muscular sphincters admitting and ejecting atoms.
Water coded with protein to make it smell like human sweat fed into the bodies through PVC tubes
What emerges, through fragrant, cloth-bound appendages, is something approximating water.
So, according to the golem logic of art, since the lemon is valuable, it should be exhibited and preserved. And there it is, squeezed against the windowpane, vacuum packed between two sheets of plastic, shrivelling, flattening into an image.
reminiscent of a mummy: dark green fabric wrapped tight and garnished with a pink bouquet of incense.
Which is to say that: an area of us around the size of a tennis court is constantly exposed to the air and elements, incessantly absorbing and exchanging materials.
Have a breathe in.
The conception of cleanliness is a relatively recent take on what’s considered permissible to pass into contact with our body; in some contexts, dirt and rot are anathema, things to be rinsed away and disappeared. In others, they’re a replenishing mud bath and restorative probiotic.
Our hope is to create sustained proximity between otherwise disparate fields of practice
Let the mingled molecules of nitrogen, oxygen, argon caress your nose hairs, slip under your epiglottis and tickle the cilia that line your trachea on the way in.
Any number of human habits – our diets, our disgusts and aversions – might be considered logical extensions of such a dynamic, though it would seem we’ve developed our own twists to that tale.
abject limbs draped in delicate beige knits
Photography: Flavio Pescatori, Julia Jacksch, David Stjernholm, Jan Søndergaard, Jakob Emdal
Website: Asger Behncke Jacobsen
Typeface: Diatype by Dinamo