Cecilie Skov / Piecing Breezes

4 – 25 September, 2020

Arcway Nightlands Connector Jennifer-See Alternate

Liflandsgade 6

2300 København S

Danmark

Organised by: Anna Tydén

Text by: Nanna Friis

Photo credit: Malle Madsen

Language emerges from inside the body, from inside a 

mouth, a head, the heart. And so language pulls out 

these insides, making them outsides: words or things 

for instance, or new beings. And so it crawls out onto 

reality, language, that autumn it was hung in a room. 

A number of blue outsides, a tight aqua forest. Here it 

stands for a moment, doesn’t grow, tells a bit. Surfaces 

do that. Dense stories, they move upwards only, 

indifferent to the horizon. And so these imprints can be 

anything, just like language. They can emerge from an 

inside which birthed them like a plastic womb, 

congealed them like cocoons. Spoke them with a wet 

mouth. What is found on the inside, still unshaped, is 

brought into the outer world to be heard. A flexible 

alphabet of wax. Partly menacing, partly ridiculous how 

everything, no matter how sturdy it seems, certainly 

decomposes (a joy for the egos behind anything 

meant for infinity). To actually aim for decomposition, 

to perceive it as an option rather than a destruction, 

because what is no longer visible still exists. Does it 

ever show that this particular scent of a neck filled you 

up. Some moments are thicker than others, some eyes 

open enough for you to rest in them, a whole existence 

of invisibility piling up between the pointy lines of 

reality. Please enjoy how the world is dispersed among 

us as a world, new leaves and words that stay in some 

gazes for a while before sloshing out. How cute, this 

fate of everything, to alternate between being inner and 

outer. Earliest of all: the liquid and its entire warm spirit 

before absolute luck throws it into an instant. Who 

actually knows if they’d prefer to be water or a 

decision? It is said that we rub off: the amount of drops 

leaving the inside of a loved one, the amount of 

moments where these drops are Your Dream. And so 

we share an orbit, becoming poison in the same jaws, 

waves and ears amongst each other. Spit out your holes 

on your fingertips, here they can wake up and take hold 

like greasy messages without eternity. Warm ice, we 

swim on.  

Text by Nanna Friis