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𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵. 𝘛𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘢
𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵
𝘭𝘦𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘨.
𝘔𝘢𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦
𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘙𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘯
𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬
𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦.
𝘏𝘰𝘰𝘧𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥
𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨.
@galeriekhoshbakht
Yoora Park (@yzzzzzzzp)

8.6.-3.8.2024

I.

You stop, you pause, you wait for an edge to appear only to slowly realize you might be the edge. All around you something else’s non-existence prompts the emergence of a space. Its contours are familiar, leeched from a fade. What is the sound of an edge appearing? An incessant flicker like the pull of a reel-to-reel tape recorder, a circular hum. The sound of a waiting room, an office building with stacks of identical floors, the elevator carriage before the doors part, before the ding. However temporary, there’s also something sustaining here, temporality feels material: thicker than vapor though still porous and defined by what it—that edge—starts to impinge upon. Like a shadow, like a bad mood. Like the queasy and indeterminate lead-up to the onset of the flu. Inside, cubicle-like with four walls made of muscle, tissue and glands that throb and buffer. A rush of blood to the ears meets the jangle of a fax machine making contact across phone lines. For a moment, informational coordinates roam free out there, fundamentally inside of yet seemingly beyond the boundaries of formal space. Administrative time is time to calibrate, is the sound of a tautology, is circular, is coming into being into order to be useless.

(Excerpt of the text from Annie Goodner; the full version you find on our website - link in bio)

Fotos: Oskar Lee

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