FRANKI’S LIBRARY

Torino TO, Italia

1-2 November, 2025

CIRCULATION DESK 

Curated by Alina Vergnano and Rebecca Lindsmyr

Elisa Barrera, Elina Bergmark Wiberg, Magnus Frederik Clausen, Ray Hegelbach, Freja Sofie Kirk, Rebecca Lindsmyr, Mickael Marman, Kaare Ruud, Emil Sandström, Martin Sæther, Alina Vergnano, Alice Visentin, Stacey de Voe, Ilija Wyller

A dancer is positioned off-centre on screen, their back turned, arms repeatedly rounding the torso’s sides like pendulums. One movement extends out from the body, its force employed to traverse the flooring, morphing into the next, and next, and next – gesture. Soon thereafter the movements stretch from end to end, vertically and horizontally. The camera’s eye is trying to keep up pace, but falls through, falls behind in its capture. Limbs are being cut and exit given framework.

It all started with a discussion on Yvonne Rainer, and subsequently the convenient mishap that this dancer notably became screen, became book, became an archive of movements flattened out, piled and multiplied, slid back in amongst the shelves – that this show became a library.

Upon entering a library, one generally stumbles across the circulation desk; the piece of furniture to the top of which exchanges are referred. In targeted pirouettes, trade is introduced onto a stage, and leaves the way it entered – in circulation, and out of it. The efficient dealing of densely packed figures slides over the dedicated plane, stroked by hands of management. Data, value, goods, desire. Inscribed.1 Slip with your tongue and it’s all a discus2 of exchange, content and surface jammed into one. 

Phenomenologically, the surface is where the body meets the world, a point of connectivity. In Sara Ahmed’s twist the surface is formed through this very connectivity; the movements (of emotions) between bodies are the effect of interactions, of impressions.3 The surface holds the content, traces left by bodies, and so it becomes a collective border and social force rather than an inner state. 

Circulations in a system, blood in veins, timely cycles; hands are spinning. Emotions pushing heart, vessels, hormones – faster, tighter. Emotive rises, sun sets, the days consumed––condensed––into mere lines: horizons, contours, surfaces, shelves. Flatly packed and stacked. Our bodies, our shelves.4 Presented for display – on shelves, as shelves, the selves. 

 

 

1 What is inscribed in painting? In a piece of work? Isabelle Graw have notably described the indexicality of painting; how the mark inscribes ‘subjectivity’, a fragment of its maker, and hence value relevant for commercial circulation. David Joselit have similarly pointed to the inscription of time; ‘One of the marvels of modern painting is that this tension between marking and storing time remains present on its surfaces, since its constituent marks, which are laid down over time, are always simultaneously available to vision’. David Joselit. ‘Marking, Scoring, and Speculating (on Time)’ in Painting beyond Itself: The Medium in the Post-medium Condition, ed. Isabelle Graw and Ewa Lajer-Burcharth. Berlin: Sternberg, 2016. pp.11-20 p.14 

2 Discus being the root word of both desk and disk/disc.

3 Sara Ahmed. The Cultural Politics of Emotion. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2014. 

4 John Kelsey. ‘Our bodies, our shelves’ in Rich Texts: Selected Writing for Art. Berlin: Sternberg Press, 2010. A text on the work of Rachel Harrison, in which he describes the rack or the shelf as ’where all things––trophies, magazines, cans, whatever––come together. It is where the language or communicativity of things display itself as such, most shamelessly, in the gallery or supermarket. Our bodies, our shelves.’. pp. 129–131, p.129

 

 

– Rebecca Lindsmyr

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“Truth is a matter of the imagination. The soundest fact may fail or prevail in the style of its telling: like that singular organic jewel of our seas, which grows brighter as one woman wears it and, worn by another, dulls and goes to dust. Facts are no more solid, coherent, round, and real than pearls are. But both are sensitive. […] If at moments the facts seem to alter with an altered voice, why then you can choose the fact you like best; yet none of them is false, and it is all one story.”

Ursula K. Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness, London, Penguin Books, 1992, p. 1.

Telling is not living; yet we rely on narrative to convey what happened. Indeed, narration is not a mere distortion, but a way of knowing: as Peter Brooks observes in his eponymous essay, raw facts gain meaning only once they are shaped into narrative. The danger lies in the seduction of the effect of truth—often more valued than truth itself—especially when history shows that to control storytelling is to control reality. And at a time when conspiracy theories and truth claims are cloaked in the aesthetics and rhetoric of evidence, Seduced by Story asks: what kind of truth can fiction contain? What forms of power does narrative enable—or resist? And finally, what are the implications for the image, so often said to ‘tell stories’—particularly photography, of which Susan Sontag writes in Regarding the Pain of Others that it ‘has only one language and is destined potentially for all’: doesn’t it mystify more than it reveals?

The artworks brought together in this exhibition question the pacts of belief that narratives propose, as well as the mechanisms through which regimes of fiction shape perception and interpretation, both on personal and collective levels, and influence how we connect to reality.

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A photograph that was produced for the film Blade Runner but never used functions as a memory implant. Someone is looking for something invisible under the furniture in a house. A lighthouse is climbed to confront it with its notion of orientation. Irena Haiduk, Marietta Mavrokordatou, and Luzie Meyer penetrate spaces, reveal hidden dimensions and their inherent relations, and search for a way to translate them into pictures. Light plays a central role in this: it becomes corporeal, a protagonist, makes the photographic image possible, and has the potential to erase it again.

Repeatedly failing to align with light, a quote from a film by Luzie Meyer, refers to the use of visual disruptions and optical refractions. The failure to align with light alludes to the skepticism shared by the artists regarding the visual and its impact on perception, memory, and narration. The exhibition tells of the attraction of the absent, of the appearance and disappearance of pictures, and of the vertigo of orienting oneself.

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GOSWELL ROAD

22 Rue de l’Échiquier, 75010 Paris

 

ENTRE MES DOIGTS

Raphaël Fanelli

 

Exhibition 23 October – 22 November 2025

Open Thursday to Saturday 14h – 18h

 

 

Au fond du cendrier

Des mégots de souvenirs

Parce que la fumée froide

Oui, parfois réconforte

 

Des vestiges de soirées

Peut-on lire dans les cendres

Fêtes inhalées d’hier

Les pulsions d’aujourd’hui

L’adolescence aux lèvres

Au bout incandescent

Un bâton de parole

Infini et magique

Chaque moment perdu

Est un souvenir gagné

Il reste la musique

Quand tout le reste s’éteint

 

Des traces de rouge à lèvres

Une nostalgie sans fièvre

C’est moi que l’on retrouve

Au fond du cendrier

 

— Chloé Delaume

 

 

Le méGOt

 

Le megot

T’es posé là,

Tige sèche..

Tu pues,

T’as pas de couille.

 

— Maulice*Câlème

 

www.goswellroad.com

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Réverbère 

Lucille Leger, Jacques-Marie Ligot
27.09.2025-01.11.2025
In extenso, Clermont-Ferrand

“Lights against dark street corners, against hedges, in dark clubs, against accumulation in alleyways. Dirt collects where there are no eyes. And, opened to the light, society finds these areas repulsive […] And so control must expose everything to its certifying daylight, light.”

Like infrastructures of illumination, ghosts too participate in a cycle of erasure, reappearance, and transmission. Avery H. Gordon suggests that they both record and incite. I would add that they also reflect: their pranks and mischievous tricks are reflections of the turbulence of society, the cracks we turn away from—only to circle back and confront them again, as though caught in an endless cycle of historical amnesia. This impulse evokes the movement of a lighthouse: a spectral structure that disappears into the night until its beam sweeps the darkness once more, in a loop—not only to guide, but also to expand human presence into otherwise hostile territories.

It is from this figure—at once luminous, guiding, and complicit—that Lucille Leger and Jacques-Marie Ligot develop their research. The lighthouse becomes a point of convergence, a crossroads for reflection on use and users, on wakefulness and sleep, on night and day, on the gaze and surveillance, on presences and ghosts. The latter should not be understood here as supernatural entities or nuisances, but as metaphors for all that persists in the invisible, becoming a prism through which to grasp how our spaces are traversed by absences, erased histories and affect.

Here, neon lights flicker, revealing networks of cables and objects within the walls.  Discs turn in rhythm with the humidity. Clocks twirl, stuck in a perpetual pirouette. Sensors record data—the passersby in the street, the variations in humidity inside the space, the sounds from outside—and translate them into a spectral score. What once belonged to a logic of surveillance becomes here another form of looking: not one that controls, but one that reveals.

Lucille and Jacques-Marie invite us to see differently. Yet the apparitions they summon are to be perceived less as hauntings than as reminders of concrete reality. Beatriz Colomina writes that modernist architecture—one intrinsically masculine—is not simply a platform welcoming subjects, but rather a mechanism of vision producing those subjects, framing occupants through the placement of windows and the use of glass, enabling a certain voyeurism. “The etymology of the word window reveals that it combines wind and eye,” she reminds us.

In contrast with an architecture that spatializes the questions of objectification, Lucille and Jacques-Marie have imagined a split wall, opening the possibility of a fragmented, airy gaze. Lenses scatter across the partition, dispersing in turn the objects of the gaze, while ventilation systems reinforce the notion of circulation, moving away from a static and virile vision of architecture and the built environment. The users of the space are no longer trapped in viewing machines, but become elusive, furtive presences.

The materials themselves contribute to this fragility: cardboard, invisible ink, fabric. They evoke both the materiality and speculative quality of a model: in their provisional quality, and in their hypothetical nature. “Model (architecture) = body that goes beyond itself,” I once wrote in my student notes. The installation can thus be read as such: an entity that extends on another scale and translates a revision of space. And the precariousness of the materials employed gives it a porous skin, traversed by histories—the fissures become scars, curtains become eyelids, mold becomes a rash. Bandages are replaced by tracing paper that holds together this fragile creature. In this way, they question the fragility of structural systems, the constraining function of the built environment, and propose a reversed reflection of the latter, one elaborated from bodies.

Lucille and Jacques-Marie invite us to see differently, and to look elsewhere. In the basement, another spectre surveilles: a streetlamp with two bulbs, envelopped in a membrane. Its two lights murmur, translating the sounds of the street into a shifting glow, before freeing themselves from the urban context they were destined for, in a gesture of apparent insubordination. They whisper to each other, as if sharing a secret conversation, no longer at our service, producing a luminous language of their own. Behind this intimate scene lies a political memory: that of public lighting, the mechanization of the night, the birth of a surveillance society. This streetlamp, once installed in the streets of Clermont-Ferrand, becomes a character, a reminder of a nocturnal past.

In this way, the devices Lucille and Jacques-Marie conjure do more than persist—they act, through their mischievous tricks, as mirrors, reflecting the cracks, desires, and silences of the spaces they inhabit. Here, the mischief of ghosts can be understood as an archive of pitfalls—grief, desire, frustration—that may become forms of knowledge to be welcomed, to be absorbed. For this, one must listen to them, letting their stories unfold. The word Réverbère—French for streetlight, title of the exhibition and dissident object—carries within its roots this logic of reflection and resonance: to strike again, to repeat, to reflect, to shine, to send back, to re-emit, to echo. The exhibition thus becomes an instrument of reverberation, restoring residues of presence and flows into space. By attending to these echoes, Lucille and Jacques-Marie learn from ghosts, letting their pranks guide the gaze, fragment perception, and transform both the material environment and our way of inhabiting it.

 

• Katia Porro 

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In Lodge, Jules Gårder, and Jen Chai Shear have created a system that forces recognition and navigation, a direct physical intervention in what is typically afforded to the viewer, collector, curator, or guest: the center.

During the later stages of preparation for this show, in a conversation, we sought a title that would complement a collaboration between numerous ideas and elements. The word “lodge” was proposed. I initially imagined something lodged, embedded, or intruding, perhaps a splinter. Marginalia, the decorative, whimsical or illuminating elements on the edges of texts, were highlighted as a source of energy this show would draw from. In fact, we were talking about the industrious and noble animal, the beaver, and the homes they build on the edges (margins) of ponds they have created. 

They are a strange creature, creative but bound by neurosis. They produce their dams for one reason: the sound of water is impermissible to them. It must be stilled. There doesn’t seem to be a better metaphor for an artist than that. A gallery, any venue filled with any creative thing, is just that: an unobstructed channel through which a person can flow in and out. In Lodge, they have been dammed, pooled, forced to circulate, contained and divided by structure and multitude.

This space, in which this is the inaugural show, is Nuisance, the adjective, and later the name given to the cat I grew up with. He was an interloper, with goals and objectives opaque to us, but clear to him. Despite beavers being widely viewed as something along those lines, whose dams must be defeated with dynamite, their ponds are generative, creating the density and stillness in which life thrives. Through collection, the many become monolithic, capable of altering the landscape. Their work is recognized, and they feature in legends, artwork, and iconography. We have bestowed upon them the honour of complexity.

In Lodge, you are asked to navigate complexity and pause in the still moments that individual moments create, to be both the marginalia and the page at the same time. 

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After having my gallery located on the edge of MacArthur Park — perhaps the most disregarded area in all of Los Angeles — for about a year and a half, I came to understand the depth and the breadth of the unrequited love that many Angelenos have with this city. I then came to realize that this is somewhat emblematic of the unrequited love that many Americans have with this country as a whole. What is happening within Los Angeles County is not the same as the nationalism or patriotism exhibited in other parts of the United States, of course, as the people I have been interacting with or walking past were not aggressive or exclusionary or xenophobic; nor are most of the people I interact with or walk past elsewhere. Most people I engage with simply want to know that they and the rest of us from West Covina to West Hollywood will be taken care of in the most basic of ways — housing, healthcare, food, etc. Why are city officials more focused on preparing for the Olympics and building new shopping centers than figuring out new solutions for traffic patterns and providing more widespread and better promoted harm reduction services?

That was both a snarky rhetorical question and a legitimately sincere question. I know why the local government does what it does — it is greedy and corrupt, like all forms of government. But also, why does it have to be that way? Why can’t people ever choose love and empathy over money and more money?

Community has always and always will be such a major focal point of Gene’s Dispensary and its expansive and varied programming. From day one, I have involved people and practices I have cared deeply about for many years. From day one, I have organized exhibitions and events elsewhere with people I greatly admire at places I greatly admire. From day one, I have been determined to stay rooted in my community, while also growing my community.

This exhibition is the first exhibition at the new Gene’s location in Chinatown: 422 Ord Street, 2B, Los Angeles, CA 90012. It’s above Leroy’s and next to The Fulcrum. These two spaces are operated by two of my best friends and favorite people, Ian James and Josh Schaedel. I am further integrating myself and my gallery into my community (like, I mean, officially).

This exhibition also includes nine of my favorite artists and people: Joshua Abelow, Jesse Benson, Bjorn Copeland, Michael Kennedy Costa, Juliana Halpert, Merideth Hillbrand, Sophia Le Fraga, David Muenzer, and LeRoy Stevens. I have previously worked with each of these artists in some capacity, some more extensively and/or intensely than others, but they are all now officially a part of the Gene’s extended family. 

Take a look around. Have a little bit of this, have a little bit of that. Chin-chin!!

⁃ Keith J. Varadi, October 2025

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ArtNoble Gallery is pleased to present ‘Né qui, né altrove. On domestication’, a group exhibition featuring works by Friedrich Andreoni, Hernán Pitto Bellocchio, Zazzaro Otto, Francesca Pionati, Simon Starling, Marko Tadić, and Andrea Zittel, curated by Arnold Braho. The exhibition project Né qui, né altrove. On domestication takes its title from a crucial episode in the recent history of social movements in Italy: the demonstration held on November 30, 2002, against detention centers for migrants. With the slogan “Neither here, nor elsewhere”, that event did not merely challenge one specific detention site but denounced a broader system of confinement and control, highlighting how spatial violence was then enacted in relation to migration policies and transformations in labor within a global context. Né qui, né altrove. On domestication thus seeks to interrogate space as a political device, capable of establishing degrees of inclusion and exclusion without ever producing an absolute “outside.” From this perspective, the exhibition takes that event as a starting point for reflecting on contemporary forms of control, on the porous spaces of globalization, and on the possibility of imagining an elsewhere that does not coincide with either isolation or resignation. The project connects with those dynamics of spatial violence that cut across today’s different forms of power, manifesting themselves both in urban policies of gentrification and social exclusion—as in the case of Leoncavallo—and in the imperialist violence inflicted upon Palestinian territories. Domestication (from the Latin domesticus, “of the house”) is a multidimensional concept: it traverses biology, sociology, cultural studies, and political theory. Across these fields, it points to a process of control, adaptation, and transformation that renders what is external and different conforming and functional to an established order. Techniques of organization and control—such as urban segregation, the creation of borders, differentiated access to services and resources—produce inclusion or exclusion, belonging or marginality. Spatial violence (Eyal Weizman) is a concept that describes how space itself, the landscape, and the built environment become active instruments of domination, control, and oppression. In particular, Weizman argues that space is not merely a passive site where violent events unfold but the very medium through which violence is exercised and structured. Starting from these premises, the exhibition aims to explore domestication as process. It is not simply a matter of producing familiarity, but of observing how certain symbols, images, and subjects are normalized, integrated, controlled, and ultimately repressed. And yet, something escapes: what resists this movement of capture?

Within the exhibition, artistic practices are presented that address, from different perspectives, the tensions between control, space, and the possibility of escape. Francesca Pionati investigates the relationships between urban infrastructures, governance, and contemporary rituals. Her work transforms controlled spaces into sites of informal resistance and autonomous architectures, staging political and aesthetic tensions while redefining ways of inhabiting and perceiving the urban environment. Andrea Zittel, meanwhile, explores modes of dwelling as artistic and social practice, questioning how spaces, objects, and daily routines can be reimagined to challenge conventions and stimulate new forms of existence. In Friedrich Andreoni’s works, objects overturn their roles: instruments designed to open become barriers, escape routes turn into dead ends; while Zazzaro Otto traverses social hierarchies by transforming heterogeneous materials into ironic devices that stage alienation and the contradictions of contemporary precarity. Marko Tadić investigates utopia and exhibition politics, exploring the idea of display through narrative devices and visual forms that redefine both the exhibition format and the ways of experiencing the gallery space. Hernán Pitto Bellocchio reinterprets centers of power as ruins, stripping them of their aura of stability. Simon Starling interweaves natural, colonial, and cultural histories, transforming objects, spaces, and processes into discursive operations that reveal the deep dynamics of memory, historical traces, and the ways the past is constructed and reinterpreted.

Text by Arnold Braho

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Ça va comme ça

This show could have happened ten years ago, in 2015 when Tonus was in the 15th arrondissement.

Despite the shine of the polished pewter, the Lettuce is a little wilted on its plinth into which it could fit. The lettuce was originally an ice cream mold made in the 1950s by Létang fils, located at 108 rue Vieille du Temple from 1891 to 1986, a site that later became Yvon Lambert and is now Zwirner.

The empty cigarette packs in the current Work set attempt to approximate as closely as possible the volume of the plinth of Lettuce. The set here represents 117 hours and 20 minutes of life reserve depleted, equal to 1936 USD.

‘Argent’ in French: ’silver,’ meaning the material, and the color (of pewter, of aluminum, of stainless), also the word for ’money.’

The two Philomène’s that go OH HOHO and so on and so forth are based on Carl Andre’s Philemon, originally monumental, modular, raw, now miniaturized, then fixed and painted. A dozen Philomène’s already exist, which is quite enough, and any future version would be redundant.

They sit on Shelf’s in colors quoting the gray floors and white walls of art galleries whose standardization still keeps going. The shade of gray here is light, up to date, compared to the heavier one of the previous decade.

Going upstairs, Monnaie Tonus (prototype) can be fed coins that remain stuck inside. Paying yields no result.

The Potato’s are also molds. Pewter-plated brass wires cross their hollow insides. O’s crossed by cursive lines.

At the end of the corridor an o on an H, a Pea on a bed.

Potatoes, lettuce, peas: easy vegetables, popular because inexpensive, not at all exotic.

The Bonbons are wrapped in fake 1953 Duchamp’s that say A GUEST + A HOST = A GHOST Marcel DUCHAMP. That was for his friend William Copley’s show in Paris. Inside the two lemon candies look like a pair of potatoes.

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Galleri Nicolai Wallner is pleased to present ‘Light over the last fields’, a solo exhibition by E.B. Itso, opening Friday, October 24th, 2025.

E.B. Itso’s practice investigates power structures and economic interests, and the effect they hold over our lives and the spaces in which we live. In both his life and his work, he is examining the spaces where the body of resistance meets architecture, directing attention onto that which most often avert their gaze.

This exhibition is a portrait of self-determination and negotiation of space.

Upon entering the gallery, the audience is met by an empty room, and to the left, a blockade. A rough wall and a small tower are pieced together of found materials. Corrugated metal plates are weathered and marked, unearthed from the remains of a defunct farm. Through the metal surface, faint sounds of shouting can be heard. The structure appears imposing, yet a set of steel steps offers a point of entry.

The work ‘Light over the last fields’ is intended to be climbed. The participatory installation introduces both a sense of unease and of discovery. Beyond the wall, twelve photographic works are hung, each partially excised, revealing a blank white field in the frame. The subjects seem to appear just out of view, obscured by the removal. The glaring white space poses questions. Is something being hidden, or has it been stolen? What once belonged in the image is now out of reach.

Once over the wall, the sounds become clearer, a video embedded in the tower. Archival documentary footage gives a glimpse into the movement and the protagonist that this exhibition takes as it’s point of departure. In the film, farmers are dragged off their land by police. They discuss the emotional cost of bearing arms against their oppressors.

‘Light over the last fields’ presents an exploration of the tactile and emotional landscape of resistance and defiance against motions of expropriation*, the nearly universal struggle to negotiate the borders of land and home.

Acting as both artist and a contemporary archaeologist, Itso questions the concepts of ownership and societal rights through the story of a farmer whose land is now a peninsula, surrounded by the runways of Tokyo’s Narita International Airport. This farmer, along with many others both past and present, have been pushing against the forced resignation of their land for decades. The photographs were taken by the artist at what remained of the farm in 2023.

The third runway of Tokyo’s Narita International Airport continues to be developed today.

*Expropriation refers to the process by which property, land, or resources are taken—typically by a state, institution, or dominant economic actor—from individuals or communities, often under claims of public interest or development.

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The trees form a straight green hue across the peripheral. Driving uphill, circular clusters of light are blinding. This time of year all reds turn to crimson. The hydrangeas, that haven’t already been pruned, hang crisp in the wind. Most wasps have abandoned their nest or died. We make a habit of looking at the colors change. 

 

Right where the hill drops, down the bend, it is there. Bricks must have been laid out no later than the 1900s and it is still there. Been trying to form an idea of it, the root memory, but there are none. Behind us, all traces of the city are gone. 

 

In his Mystic Writing Pad, Freud proposed a model of memory as a layered surface: a wax layer that retains permanent impressions, hidden beneath a transparent sheet, which can be refreshed and marked anew. What remains and what is newly inscribed reflects the mind’s capacity to hold both enduring unconscious traces and conscious perception.

 

In the semi-detached living room it was always there. The first painting I ever saw. Houses interlocked between naked trees– warm textured yellows. I remember tracing the surface with my fingers. I remember laying backwards on the dark green couch, my feet defiantly up against the wall. Town has changed a lot since then.
In the kitchen, a neuroscientist discusses his discoveries on the radio. Memory is not a fixed record but an act of continual reconstruction. We remember not to preserve the past but to imagine the future. Memory is a simulation engine, an interpretive act that helps us navigate what comes next. To remember is, in a sense, to anticipate. Each recollection reactivates and reshapes neural networks, blending the past with the contingencies of the present.

Road goes by so fast, it all disappears. The dark bricks, the front porch, the shadows of the trees around it. Only caught a glance. Wind Shake, and the thought is gone. Time always seems to stand still outside the window. Exhale on the glass and trace out an outline to look out from. 

Hidden within the grain, a Wind Shake or Thunder Shake reveals itself only when the wood is planed. These internal fractures, born of stress and weather, weaken the structure as they record the history of forces endured: imprints of having been moved, and moved again.

Originally referring to the shake, Anemosis, from the Ancient Greek ἄνεμος (ánemos, “wind”) and νόος (nóos, “mind”), is now used to refer to a pang of nostalgia for a time or place never directly known. 

 

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In computing, file system fragmentation, sometimes called file system ageing, is the tendency of a file system to lay out the contents of files non-continuously to allow in-place modification of their contents. It is a special case of data fragmentation. File system fragmentation negatively impacts seek time in spinning storage media, which is known to hinder throughput. Fragmentation can be remedied by re-organising files and free space back into contiguous areas, a process called defragmentation.
Wikipedia(1)

 

Vividly coloured and presented as almost abstract shapes and forms, tracing lines or colour fields into spaces that most of time mislead more than help their interpretation, the paintings by Naeun Kang are all figurative and all very thoroughly depicting traces and images in which close to nothing is random or unthought of. In one of these paintings, for example, a room is presented to us, not in the classic pictorial idea of a room, but as a planimetry. We need to specify that it is not a random room that is presented to us, as this is the living room of the artist’s parents at their home in South Korea. The floor plan represents almost exactly Kang’s memory of this place: the furniture, a table arranged with plates, a kitchen, and even the movements of the people in this represented landscape, depicted by round circles moving through the space. This room exists and none of these movements were invented, the city in South Korea where they and the artist lived exists, as much as the complex relations linking together the people that are depicted sitting at this table. Also the four coloured figures depicted in another painting are not invented. The father and mother and brother of a child-aged Naeun Kang (here painting herself as not taller than the thigh of her father, a vivid memory of her childhood) are all depicted as if they were a Venn diagram. The artist, while reflecting about her interactions and relation with her family, in the different times of their lives and different sizes of their bodies, started to imagine of seeing them all as intersecting regions of a diagram, in their closeness and distances, love and incomprehensions. All these relations are as real as the large living room depicted again as a floor plan in another of the paintings in this show, this time exactly trying to visualise a usual Sunday in the large living room of the artist’s family when they moved to North America. Like fragments, bits and pieces, copied from memories and emotions, these works are a constellation of instants and thoughts, of feelings and images that in the artist’s memory compose together a picture not far from the coloured and abstract screen that everybody that owned a computer in the 90es and early 00s have been presented with, the lines of untidy squares and colour bits with which our operative systems showed us how much our laptop needed defragmentation, in lingo Defrag. A process of turning a spread-out reality into a more organised form, a more efficient way of seeing and retrieving information from a complex system of data. In the same way, Naeun Kang presents us with an extremely coherent exhibition in which memory, reflections about her relationship with her ageing parents and the ideas of family, distance, and closeness take the shape of these very concise yet powerfully evocative paintings. These images invite the viewer to follow them in Kang’s own process of defragmentation, to decompress all these very exact images and fragments, to follow her in her own way of approaching reality and metabolising her own lived experiences, some of her most important relations, and her way to feel and see them now and in her memory, both as a neurodivergent person, and as an expat.(2) These images then, this art which is so foreign to us at first glance, become more and more clear when we understand how it attempts to present us memories, feelings and ideas with an almost forensic precision.(3) We look then at another painting where behind an almost abstract interplay of lines and shapes, we discover it tries to depict at the same time, as overlapping figures, moving as a lenticular image, three cats the artists has subsequently fostered at her place in Oslo during the past years. That fuzzy overlapping of shapes is how she memorised and remembers them, and the almost abstract painting depicting this is as exact she could be into representing it, or better: them, and it is here that one might be able to understand how nothing in these paintings is improvised, nothing is fantasy or an invention. Figurative painting itself, as an art form, is although partially reinvented for us in the process. Naeun Kang brings it back anew to represent, to make us see, and feel the eerie and fantastic world she sees, and that we couldn’t have otherwise seen, felt or imagined without the help of her savvy brushstrokes.

 

Mattia Lullini

 

_
(1) Definition of File system fragmentation on https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File_system_fragmentation#Causes (Accessed on October 3rd, 2025)
(2) “[…] my past is what formed me/and part of me, and the accumulation of my experiences together with these other people are precisely what built up my relationship with them. […] I don’t think I’ve ever even tried to find meaning through painting, because it’s too black and white and it shuts down conversation, I want to think that it’s okay for my art to be the results or byproducts of my metabolising or processing of things (events, thoughts, feelings, experiences) and just be that, stay in that ambivalences (also opens up more conversation this way).” Naeun Kang, from a Whatsapp conversation with the author.
(3) The specificity and intentionality behind almost all of Naeun Kang’s paintings is a way of working and creating images which I believe it originally taps into the roots of painting itself, not for the sake of art or in the lines of a tradition, but for the sake of exactly depicting and extracting ideas and feelings which the artist would have no other way to describe. Coming from decades of post- movements one would be tempted to apply this concept to the figurative paintings Kang does, but I really believe this is not something post-, and neither something anti-, nor in any other way hierarchically or antagonistically related to other kinds of figurative art, Naeun Kang’s art goes beyond figuration. With the intention to find a way to visualise something clear to her but impossible to represent otherwise, her figurative paintings go through the idea at the core of this artistic expression to find a new place on the other side, which I would attempt to define preterfigurative art, or preterfiguration. When an art practice challenges our ideas, isn’t it worth creating new words to describe it?

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Thirty-three yellowed plastic Bosch speakers attached by various types of cables make for imperfect connections while converting electric impulses into sound. For more than sixty years, the building at Hanzas iela 22 was home to various technical and business colleges, and the speakers served as their PA system. Today, the devices are no longer used for any utilitarian purpose, and the recording of a long whisper does not cut time like a school bell would. The secret language of the universe is sometimes called fate. In and out of time, clandestine communication methods have been tools to play with, to conspire, to find community in what cannot be said out loud. The oversaturation of information creates a new kind of obscurity, and the distinction between public and private language sees itself in an uncertain relationship to the world. During his six-week residency in Rīga, Sebastian collected items and images to create a space in-between intentional and chance encounters, allowing for accidents to bring their own reality into being. An attempt to capture vernacular moments in this place and time, a reward for a generous and curious eye — the highest form of flattery is when art becomes part of real life. Models of national romanticist houses cut out of grey cardboard and placed on top of the speakers remind us of the beautiful oddities in the architectural movement from the early 20th century that sought to create a visual language of the archetypical origins of a country and its people, which, in the case of Latvia, found inspiration in its nature and folk tales. The interest that national romanticism took in unbalanced compositions and asymmetry makes one think about the unavoidable gaps and eeriness in any real attempt to map out a place of belonging. It’s always like that — once you try to pin it down, it escapes.

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Hertta Kiiski & Janne Punkari ANDRA VÅNINGEN / The Second Floor

Fotocentrum Raseborg

18 September – 31 October 2025

 

On the second floor, there are objects: a sunset suitcase, a sleeping rose, a lavender column cabinet, a fries-sun tray, a radiator-rose breadbox, a spider bathtub, a tube-column cart, handshaking pumpkins, and others. All of these gathered in the same room. The room resembles a home, but it is not a home.

The objects behave like creatures; they have their own will. Their scales are changeable. They seem to have a purpose, but the purpose remains unclear. They stand silently and wait. Visitors may decide what they want. The visitor may also choose not to decide.

 

ANDRA VÅNINGEN is a site-specific exhibition comprising a new body of work created especially for Fotocentrum Raseborg. Photographs, arrangements, and objects come together to inhabit the gallery space as a kind of home. The works are made from wood, marble, cardboard, metal, plastic, lavender, bread, and their replicas. These replicas do not simply mirror the originals but reveal new layers – much like photographs themselves. The video installation Nox Rosae, structured at 17 minutes, the average duration of a REM sleep cycle, resists conventional narrative, offering instead a drifting, affective experience that mimics the fluidity and disorientation of dreaming.

 

Visual artists Hertta Kiiski and Janne Punkari work in the fertile space between photography, video, objects, textiles, and spatial installation. Their shared practice evolves through sensitivity to material impulses, continuous merging, intuition, and presence in the moment. Everyday materials drift away from their familiar meanings, shedding their functional purposes to open new narratives where the banal, the cosmic, and the absurd intertwine.

Kiiski’s works have been widely exhibited in Finland and internationally across museums, galleries, and festivals. Punkari is currently completing his Master’s studies at the Academy of Fine Arts in Helsinki. ANDRA VÅNINGEN marks the duo’s sixth collaborative exhibition. In 2025, their joint works were also presented at the Icelandic Photo Festival in Reykjavík and at NOON Projects in Los Angeles. 

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We’re excited to announce our new daily lazy shop is live! 🛍️ Check out our designs, from Daily Lazy UFO to Cultura Spettacolo and more! For more information visit  daily lazy shop 

 

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The exhibition Clumsy Seamless will be held on the 3rd floor of the Kumho Museum of Art from October 16 to November 9. An opening reception will take place on October 16 from 5:00 PM to 7:00 PM.

The exhibition title, Clumsy Seamless, is split into two. “Seamless” refers to a process—often technological or design-driven—praised for its simplicity and fluid connection between stages. It functions only when accompanied by aesthetic smoothness, along with universality, convenience, and a high level of problem-solving. To reach this state, one must remove all the sharp, protruding stones along the way—stones that might have formed from accumulated fatigue, from omitted pain, from loose joints and delayed or hollow time. By contrast, “Clumsy” describes awkward movements or gestures, but its meaning is far from simple. Clumsiness recalls the body as a container of spirit: its inevitable limits and decay, the remnants fallen from divine or automated images, the jolts born in the coupling of subject and object, the innocent mistakes that cannot be undone. There is hesitation in such acts, yet they are not merely passive. The clumsy body refuses to absorb the image of efficiency and technology without question. This light resistance conjures a new dimension within the very idea of the seamless. Though Clumsy and Seamless seem to stand on opposing sides, they—perhaps inevitably—will not part ways soon.

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Galerie Martin Janda presents ppp—fff, Aaron Amar Bhamra’s first solo exhibition, from 16th October to 22nd November 2025.

Of course speech and objects aren’t the same, but they can be subjected to similar processes. Meaning comes through removal. I’m thinking about enunciation, but I’m not speaking. In general, I’m rarely interested in seeing either language or objects as ways of pointing back to their source (as if the speech belonged to the speaker or the table to the good-taste designer under whose name it’s identified). I’m not talking about enunciation as a formal announcement or a normed pattern of ‘correct speech’. I’m talking about how the same word will sound different each time its spoken depending on the words around it and the role it is being asked to play in the sentence. I am speaking about the dislocation of the light and the light source.

Had we been speaking ?
Had I spoken ?

On a video call between two European cities, A. tells me that all the pieces in the exhibition are contained within the dynamic markings of the show’s title: very very quiet to very very loud. Musical dynamics are not fixed in any measurable (outside) sense. They are relative to what is around them. That is to say, very very loud does not correspond to a particular decibel level, but it is louder than very loud. It’s loudness is contingent on both the quietness/loudness around it and on the relative capacities of the sound producing instrument. A very loud violin, say, is much quieter than a very loud trumpet. Volume is measured. Loudness is negotiated. It’s the cops who carry decibel meters and investigate the noise complaints.

But officer…I’m not speaking about the dislocation of the sound and the sound source.

Fidelity versus consistency.
Legibility versus privacy.
Guarantee versus negotiation.

There is a way in which writing about an exhibition always feels like letting it down. As if language will always fail in this moment and the game is not to be left holding the bag when it does. Understanding the allegorical imperative of certain objects demands a particular double point of focus and language has limited resources for keeping things open. I am speaking about decision/determination/definition as it relates to indecision/indetermination/indefinition. It doesn’t neccesarily matter how things are called. It matters how they occupy the intervals that they seek to occupy.

On the same video call between the same two European cities, I ask:
“What do you want the text to do ?”
“I trust you,” says A.
“Sure,” I say, “ but what do you want the text to do ?”

Very very quiet Very very loud
Fidelity Consistency
Suggestion Reality
Repeatable Contingent
Very very quiet
Description Evidence
Submission Appraisal
Made with Others Made Alone
Very very loud
Provisional Pre-meditated
Material Allegory
Submission Withdrawal
Provisional Permanent
Present Elsewhere
Documentary Comedy
Occurence Photography
Pause
Ordinary Ordinary
Multiple Unique
Simultaneous Sequential
Prescriptive Descriptive
Credit Debt
Certain Specific
Private Communal
Private On Display
Content Vessel
Space Floorplan
Outside Closed
Inside Inside
Stasis Procession

Text: Henry Andersen

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SHELTERS FROM THE STORM

27.09 – 01.11.2025

With Aldo Mozzini, Lucia Cristiani, Rachele Monti, Rebecca Solari, Tristebacio Club

Curated by Yimei Zhang & Tommaso Gatti

Exhibition opening hours: Friday to Saturday, from 3:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. and by appointment by writing to:

La Rada – Space for Contemporary Art is pleased to invite you to the third event of the 2025 exhibition programme OUTSIDE OF US, with a group exhibition presenting works by Aldo Mozzini, Lucia Cristiani, Rachele Monti, Rebecca Solari, and Tristebacio Club.

SHELTERS FROM THE STORM is the title of the group exhibition curated by Yimei Zhang and Tommaso Gatti at La Rada in Locarno. This exhibition pays tribute to a space that, for many years, has served as a place of dialogue and exchange—a true ‘rada,’ a haven sheltered from winds and waves.

The title is inspired by a famous song by Bob Dylan (1975), in which the storm is a metaphor for an inhospitable and hostile world. The works on display stage a tension between protection and vulnerability, investigating life as a precarious gesture in an era of nomadism, porous borders, and architecture born in ruins. Houses that are not dwellings, but fragile refuges for those seeking asylum in a time of transience.

Each artist interprets the theme of refuge in their own way: from Aldo Mozzini’s precarious structures to Lucia Cristiani‘s material installations, from Rebecca Solari‘s performance to Tristebacio Club‘s disturbing images, to Rachele Monti‘s chromatic interventions. Together, the works outline a poetic horizon in which the act of living becomes both an aesthetic and political experience, a place of resistance and openness towards others.

Aldo Mozzini, born in Locarno in 1956, lives and works in Zurich. In 1977, he enrolled at the Zurich Academy of Applied Arts and Fine Arts, where he completed his studies in fine arts in 1980. His works have been exhibited in Switzerland and abroad in galleries and museums, including Kunsthaus Zurich, I sotterranei dell’Arte Monte Carasso, Spazio 5 B Bellinzona, MACT/CACT Bellinzona, La Rada Locarno, Walcheturm Zurich, Haus der Kunstruktiv Zurich, Kunst (Zeug) Haus Rappersiwil, Kunsthaus Grenchen, Haus für Kunst Uri, Kunstmuseum Lucerne, Glassbox Paris, La Villa du Parc Annemasse, Florence, and the MAGA Museum in Gallarate. Mozzini received the Swiss Art Award in 2012 and 2019 and has held residencies in Paris and Bucharest. Her works are part of numerous collections, including those of the city of Zurich, the Graphische Sammlung ETH, the Peter Bosshard collection, and the Kunsthaus Grenchen.

Lucia Cristiani, born in Milan in 1991, lives between Milan and Sarajevo. Her research is based on the reworking of individual and collective narratives as tools for constructing the identity of bodies within a historical, natural, and political landscape. She has exhibited her work at: Material Matters, Space House, London (2025); Labs Gallery, Bologna (2025); Museo Macte, Termoli (2025); Gelateria Sogni di Ghiaccio, Bologna (2025); Cremona Contemporanea Art Week (2024); Palazzo Braschi- Fondazione La Quadriennale di Roma (2023); Museo Nazionale Romano – Fondazione la Quadriennale di Roma (2023); Galleria Mazzoli, Berlin (2023); Like a Little Disaster, Polignano a Mare (2023); Toast Project Space – Manifattura Tabacchi, Florence (2022); Fondazione ICA Milano (2022); Mart Museum, Rovereto, (2022); The Address Gallery, Brescia (2022); National Art Gallery, Bologna (2020); Sandretto Re Rebaudengo Foundation, Turin (2019); Elpis Foundation, Milan (2019); Achille Forti Modern Art Gallery, Verona (2017).

Rachele Monti, born in 1990, lives and works in Biel, Switzerland, and studied photography at CEPV-Centre d’Enseignement Professionnel de Vevey, Switzerland. She continued her studies with a degree in photography and visual communication at ECAL in Lausanne, Switzerland. In 2019, she obtained a master’s degree in Dirty Art Department at the Sanberg Instituut in Amsterdam, the Netherlands. Recent exhibitions include solo exhibitions Impeto at the Aargauer Kunsthaus, Aarau (series of exhibitions entitled CARAVAN, 3/2020); Impeto, Tart gallery x Progetto 6000, Zurich (2019); Impeto, BNP Paribas, Lugano (2018); Dippold’s delusions, Stoa42, Athens, Greece (2018); group exhibitions The And Of The World, Bijlmerplein 698, Amsterdam (2019); A Cold Open Show!, ISO, Amsterdam (2018).

Rebecca Solari, born in 1996, is a transdisciplinary artist originally from Ticino (CH) who lives between Biel (CH) and Amsterdam (NL). She holds a master’s degree from the Dirty Art department of the Sandberg Instituut in Amsterdam. Her artistic practice spans performance, video, music, curation, and installation and is based on self-representation, the desire to destroy established codes, and to explore social, gender, and contextual identities in a specific sphere of life and action. Rebecca Solari is a member of the electropunk duo Crème solaire (CH) and the music/performance project Lightning (NL).

Tristebacio Club (alias Manuele Rezzonico and Nicola Martinelli), is an artistic duo founded in 2021 by two long-time friends, Manuele Rezzonico and Nicola Martinelli. Both have been studying visual arts at Toni-Areal in Zurich since 2022. Their projects usually arise from a common interest, emotion, or feeling, which is then translated into installations that are closely linked to space but can also interact with other contexts. The duo is interested in reformulating traditional objects and architectural elements, which often exude a strong poetic aura. By placing them in dialogue with an aesthetic influenced by digital images and contemporary sensibilities, they create a surreal, imaginary, and melancholic environment.

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In the obituary it describes all those he left behind. There are just his twins. They are the only living heirs to their late father’s estate. They’ve always been one another’s shadow. 

One has a lust for life. One wholeheartedly resents their very existence. In readying the estate for its liquidation of assets one can’t bear to let go of anything. They idealize him in his absence. They love that story as much as they loved him. The other reduces him to the mistreatment they both suffered in his care and in the home. Only an entirely bad faith memory remained.

The aggrieved twin began having suddenly vivid dreams after he passed, such that they’d wake five or six times each night. In those instances of passing between states of consciousness what was remembered and what was invented became blurred. A staircase in their childhood home, which seemed unclear if it had, in fact, been there, bedevilled many such dreams.  Each step taken was colored by paradox, seeping conflicting notions of security and menace, growth and regression, in that dreamlike way of feeling. As assuredly as you trusted a step to bear weight did such sentiments emanate from it. On the first day spent going through his things in the home they reached the same staircase which must have informed the visions.

The two discovered pictures he had made on the backs of the storage boards of some of his vast comic book collection. No one would have ever seen these but him. They didn’t even realize he must have liked to make pictures. The pictures seemed like a journal,  some altogether private space. The imagery was widely varied yet revolved around one central subject. They both eventually agreed to display these items, decorating the estate sale and separating from it. It was about all they could easily agree on in relation to the estate. 

What was left behind becomes us. What was collected, the impacts of behaviors. A spectral afterimage. 

 

Michael Bussell chose Gengar, an iconic ghost Pokémon, to become his subject five years ago. He has rendered Gengar hundreds of times since, deforming and reconfiguring the symbol in his exploratory pictures and sculptures. 

 

Gengar derives its name from the ‘doppelgänger,’ a ghostly double of a living person.

This aspect of Gengar is at the center of  Bussell’s presentation at Cowpine Theater. Here Gengar is diffuse, rendered with wavering edges and pink-to-purple colors that transmute like neochrome. In some pictures he appears to us as a spectral cloud, in a state between forms. In pictures where he is more concrete, with discrete edges, he occupies liminal spaces. He is seen posted on a ladder or shifting across a staircase – transient zones that entail ascent or descent. 

Where is Gengar going, and what forms will he acquire?

 

Michael Bussell received a BFA in Photography from Maryland Institute College of Art. His output has been exhibited internationally over the past decade, including in solo exhibitions at Plague Space, Krasnodar, RU (2022), Deli Gallery, Brooklyn, NY (2015) and group shows at Marvin Gardens, Brooklyn, NY (2024), Triest, Brooklyn, NY (2021), New Scenario, Pripyat, UA and online (2021) and Interstate Projects, Brooklyn, NY (2019). In 2016 he founded the curatorial platform Wild Flower which situates art in Baltimore’s Leakin Park for dissemination online. It has also co-produced the projects Vent Space (2020-2021), My New Bed (2019) and Escape Room (2024). 

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Sniff sniff! There’s a problem, lets find a solution. But a good one. Too many bad ones out there. 

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Daily Lazy is seeking contributors to join our editorial team.

Do you have an online project you’d like to develop through our platform? Are you interested in reporting from your city and spotlighting compelling contemporary art from your local scene?

If so, we’d love to hear from you! Please reach out — we’re excited to get to know you and learn more about your ideas.

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From Sicily’s volcanic slopes to Alabama’s red clay, hyphae collaborative network links distant places through works that mine residues of domestic space — grief, resistance, memory, reinvention, and quiet repair.

Set in a 19th century residence, once part of the long-shuttered Southern University, “through every glitch and eruption” brings together 18 artists from across the US South, Ireland, Germany, Italy, Great Britain, Finland, Sicily, and Switzerland.

The exhibition unfolds inside a folk Victorian home in Greensboro, Alabama — a dwelling whose purpose has shifted over time, from university housing to family residence, and soon to become a newsroom for three local papers. The house holds traces of each chapter. Floorboards tilt. Keyholes remain. The walls and cracks hold memories, a library of residues of passage.

The exhibition threads itself through these charged spaces like a living network — provisional, connective, mycelial. Mycelium endures by working in the shadows, porous and collaborative, feeding on what has decayed in order to sustain what might grow. It suggests another kind of time: slow, recursive, unfinished, ongoing and always in the process of becoming.

Some works speak to mourning and its forms; others to endurance, reinvention, and ordinary gestures that carry us forward. A doomsday calendar. A child’s grave with fresh flowers. A salvaged stump turned into a creature. A spell. Survival here is not achieved in one act, but gathered over time — shaped by tension, care, and repetition.

Other works tilt toward speculation, invention, and myth. Flowers that grow from what is discarded. Panspermia as an allegory of persistence. Memes as units of survival. Diana, goddess of the hunt, as a shadow figure for resistance. Paintings where the eyes are not windows but skin — porous, vulnerable, alert. Found microplastics, recycled and recast, testifying to futures already embedded in the everyday.

At the hinge between myth and speculation stands a work that confronts the politics of the body. It recalls two women marked by violence and erasure: one whose nose Freud had removed in a misguided “cure” for hysteria, another whose failed attempt to assassinate Mussolini struck only his nose. Linking these stories to the history of lobotomy and medical misogyny, the work turns the nose into a curious emblem.

Taken together, these works speak less of endings than of processes — slow, unfinished, eruptive. Survival here is not imagined as a single heroic act but as an accumulation: of gestures, of repetitions, of adaptations — shaped by accident, by glitch, by what grows in the cracks we overlook. In this way, the exhibition turns from ghosts toward what is still active in the ruins, asking not only what remains, but what continues to adapt, proliferate, and persist in the aftermath.

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Laurenz is happy to present ‘accompaniment’ – Ian Waelder’s first solo exhibition in Vienna. 

—

— what if you enter a space
— what if you exit
— and re-enter
— what if up and down fold into one surface
— your shoe is broken
— your shoelace is loose
— undone
— what if you enter a space, and stay
— your walls are falling apart
— crumbling
— what if you scrape the loose plaster with your finger
— what if it gathers tight beneath your nail, hurting a little
— what if the paint is still wet
— dripping
— what if you leave fingerprints everywhere
— staining
— tracing
— what if you point out key moments
— keys
— what if you cover the key moments
— with fog
— what if up and down are bound together by a belt, a shelf
— an endless one
— one that is protected, under construction, smudged
— not to touch
— not to not to touch, touch
— not to press down, press through
— what if we stay
— do you think I have my father’s nose
— what if I collapse
— what if we know this space
— can we stay
— your finger is broken
— crooked
— turning slightly to the left, and turning slightly up, and turning slightly, slightly
— on tiptoes
— what if you catch the light on the tips of your eyelashes
— light behind closed eyelids
— what if I rip you out
— uproot you
— and cover you with a thin blanket
— to collect dust, to protect you from dust, to become dust
— little particles, pollen, microscopic, tiny
— what if we prolong?

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The exhibition ‘Nectar’ looks into the act and choreography of regurgitation: something that was ingested is brought back up, as it were, vomited. Vampire bats do it; they fly out, find an open wound on an animal and drink its blood, their spit keeps the blood runny. The bats go back to their cave and regurgitate some of the blood to feed those who didn’t fly out that night. An act that exceeds family bonds; it is friendship, and kin sustenance. A found handycam points at a pigeon’s nest right outside the Kunstverein’s entrance, it’s titled ‘Grim Passion’. In the space, an adapted sound gate lifts and lowers to adjust the sound levels, responding to the noise outside the window. The windows are whited out with buttermilk, a membrane filtering the daylight; the piece is called ‘How long can milk sit out’. Cables run through the space, feeding a sound composition that is split into higher and lower frequencies, cutting out most of the mid-range. The audio piece was formerly aired on different radio stations, and here, has found an installative and technical shape with the help of sound designer Nicolai Johansen. ‘Sounds touching’ is composed of manipulated sounds of myself and friends. There is ‘Feed’, a projection of a dysfunctional human heart, its aortic valve regurgitating. A discarded Togo sofa resurfaces after having been in an exhibition years ago, the one that prompted the curator to invite me. It has been stored on a Berlin terrace, weathering since and is now bought back, titled ‘Her mouth making small gobbling movements’. On it, tiny blood takers lay, and in the institutions’ safe three bars of gold stay hidden from sight, together they are titled ‘I performed some sort of surgery on myself’. The exhibition’s poster, always printed in excess, lies at the entrance, free to be taken away. A robotic arm keeps an irregularly ringing metallic heart in motion, together titled ‘His strength subsumed into that of his wife’— the most unplayable instrument, this Swatch heart-shaped object. A found Super 8 roll of my parents captured in movement before they were apart, is mounted onto a hook in the space, it is titled ‘My mother standing still’.

And trying the text in a stanza:
dry-eyed
in the narrow enclave
i lured-forced myself to be
tactful and lighthearted
a throaty
giggle
alluding to areas of
intimacy,
reaffirming our
exclusive bond
i nurse
abolish
early like
how tears can
disintegrate contact lenses.
The door read
“Glissez, mortels, n‘appuyez pas”

I passed on jointly credited, collaborative, paid commissions to friends, adding to the infrastructure of the Kunstverein. For one, ‘Spit on the books that are mine’, for which I asked BOOKS at to hand-pick publications, adjacent to my practice and this very exhibition. The books are for sale. And of my friend, carpenter Jan Omer Fack, I asked for a duplicate of the bed frame he had just made. With that, a lamp (following the curved movement of a regurgitation), a side table and a desk of his making, give form to a bedroom, called ‘Two drops of buffer to each specimen’. The bedroom is installed long-term in the back of the Kunstverein, for its bats to use. It becomes a permanent functional installation, whilst a showroom of his work, too. It might be worth emphasizing my interest in slippery authorship, in the circulation of thoughts and materials, in networked linkages, in economy and intimacy, in institutional critique, in odd provenance, and in the display of affection.

 

Lastly, ‘Friends, stirred like sleepers’, only exists as a speculative group show, on the space of this page. I imagine works by artist friends in an adjacent room. I imagine a bag in a bag by Hrefna Hörn. A while ago, Sabrina Seifried presented a series of transfer printed t-shirts in a vitrine in Brussels; I’d show one of those too. The white t-shirts, of which I would have one nonchalantly lying, or framed, however she prefers, show a scanned part of a photo of Victor Hugo’s window displays, which he referred to as his weekly paintings. In this setup, I would present a necklace by Joëlle Laederach, too, which usually lines my collarbones, but it works well autonomously lying there with its resin-like PVC coated shackles. I’d have an odd little drawing by Mathias MU present, one that feels like sprouting Manga. Recently re-acquainted film producer Vincent Stroep’s supermarket receipt got soaked in berry juice at the bottom of his bag, and it looks like it was licked by purple flames, that would be on the wall. I’d project a Super 8 shot video by Magdalena Frauenberg of a watch moving up and down, filmed through a vitrine, framing in it the reflection of the street behind her, the watch eerily hovering in time.

 

Exceeding the term of the exhibition in time and space, the final regurgitation is an economical one. It will nourish the institutional neighbour, Kunstverein für Mecklenburg und Vorpommern in Schwerin, where my upcoming exhibition will take place in April 2026.

 

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…he thought he had forgotten about this sensation, but no, he feels the sweetness melting on his tongue again, just like when he was a young boy.

His father hated the sound of his shoes dragging on the ground. He came up with a plan to fix his child. Every night when he came home from work, he asked the kid to walk from one end of the living room to the other in a straight line. He awaited the boy on the other side. If the kid could walk straight and not drag his shoes, he would be rewarded with a chocolate bar tucked away in the father’s palm.

It took him many tries to earn his first, or maybe that’s just how he remembers it now. He got forced by his father to walk back and forth so many times that he started to weep, which made the father angrier than he already was, frustrated by the child’s inability to make such a simple correction. When he eventually learned to lift each of his feet up every time he moved and earned the chocolate bar, he didn’t open it in front of his father. He put them in a tin can on his bookshelf. When he could not fall asleep or wake up in the middle of the night, he snuck out of bed to grab a snack from the shelves. It made him feel like a rebel, that he was eating sweets after he had already brushed his teeth diligently, against the rules his father taught him.

He wonders where the tin can is now. He can almost picture how shiny it looked when moonlight caught it through his bedroom windows. The last time he thought of the can was when he read how Petit-Jean pointed at a sardine can floating in the water and said to Jacques Lacan: “You see that can? Do you see it? Well, it doesn’t see you!”. He imagined a fantasy world in which the tin can was animated and perpetually watching everything in his childhood bedroom. He tried to picture the cartoonish reactions the tin can would express every time it saw him eating a chocolate bar in the dark.

He wonders if somewhere in this room right now someone or something is watching him, from the point of light that everything that looks at him is situated. He is sitting on the lap of a stranger in bed, who is circling his index finger down his throat and around his mouth. For some reason he tastes the sweat of this man particularly well. It’s thick and very sweet. He becomes self-conscious that his mind is drifting from sex. To compensate, he inserts the middle finger of the stranger in his mouth too. He tastes even sweeter.

His mind can’t help but wander off again as the stranger pins him down on the bed and kisses him all over. He’s thinking of the boy he loves that he has not seen in almost two months. The more he misses him the more he does not know how to reach out. The last time he spent the night at his beloved’s, they woke up early together the next morning to go to work. They were standing bare feet in the kitchen while the boy made coffee. He remembers kissing him on the back of his neck when he turned away to rinse something in the sink. He stood on tiptoes with both of his heels off the cold ceramic floor tiles to reach his lover. He wished they could both hold there still forever, but he had to let go and get back on his feet.

The boy asked him how he would like his coffee. “No sugar, but pass me the milk please”, he smiled.

 

Zaid Arshad is an artist, writer, and curator living and working in Brooklyn, NY. Recent and upcoming exhibitions and projects include Parent Company (New York, NY) (2025), Benny’s Video (Brooklyn, NY) (2025), Turquoise (Brooklyn, NY) (2025), and Kunsthalle Der Licht (New York, NY) (2024).

Over the course of his career, Matt Keegan (b. 1976, Manhasset, NY) has worked fluidly across mediums, creating sculpture, photographs, videos, and text-based work that probe the myriad ways in which art and language mediate the personal experience of physical space as well as historical, social, and political events. Matt Keegan’s work has been exhibited at museums such as the Athenaeum at the University of Georgia, Athens, GA; Museum of Modern Art, NY; Carpenter Center for the Visual Arts at Harvard University, Cambridge, MA; Contemporary Arts Museum Houston, TX: Grazer Kunstverein, Graz, AT;, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY; the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York, NY, Bilbao, ES, and Berlin, DE; The Kitchen, New York, NY; The Art Institute of Chicago, IL; and the New Museum of Contemporary Art, New York, NY. He received his MFA from Columbia University in 2004, attended the Skowhegan School of Painting and Sculpture in 2001, and his BFA from Carnegie Mellon University in 1998. Keegan is currently a Senior Critic in the Painting & Printmaking Department at Yale University, and lives and works in Brooklyn, NY.

Dena Yago is an artist, writer, and founding member of the trend forecasting group K-HOLE. She has a forthcoming collection of essays published by After Eight, Paris, and a book with Viscose Journal, both to be released in 2026. Recent exhibitions and presentations include Induction, The Intermission, Piraeus (2024); The Modern Window, MoMA, New York (2023); Body Hero, Sandy Brown, Berlin (2023); Capacity, JTT Gallery, New York (2023); Industry City, High Art, Paris (2022); Image Power, Frans Hals Museum, Haarlem (2020); Dry Season, Bodega (now Derosia), New York (2020); Force Majeure, High Art, Paris (2019); and Made in L.A., Hammer Museum, Los Angeles (2016). Recent publications include Fade the Lure (After Eight Books, 2019). Her writing has appeared in e-flux journal, Flash Art, and frieze magazine. Yago lives and works in New York City.

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Some months ago I was having a late dinner in the studio kitchen of the sculpture school when I noticed a small mouse making its way down the human-sized staircase. What struck me was that the place it came from is the highest point of the ground floor, reachable only by a few steps that, from the outside, seem impossible for a mouse to overcome. Intrigued, I set up a night-vision camera in the days that followed and scattered breadcrumbs as bait. The mouse returned, and the recordings revealed its remarkable climbing abilities. I began constructing passages from cardboard tubes, enabling it to traverse the architectural barriers of the school.

The exhibition translates this encounter into spatial terms. A translucent plastic film divides the room vertically, transforming the entrance into a narrow passage that directs visitors along an altered route through the architecture, echoing the pathways once traced by the mouse. Other elements extend this narrative across the space, shifting the conditions and atmospheres of the Ping Pong basement, and presenting a site that draws attention to the interplay of above and below, the seen and unseen.

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The Foundation and Museo Nivola is pleased to present Behind the Seen, a solo exhibition by artist Mona Hatoum, the result of a residency in Orani during which Hatoum explored Sardinia, deepening her encounter with the island’s local culture and artisanal practices.

Curated by Giuliana Altea, Antonella Camarda and Luca Cheri, the exhibition includes both existing works and several new productions, some created in collaboration with local artisans. Behind the Seen reflects on the relationship between body, matter and land, between what is visible and what remains hidden.

Through a language that combines formal minimalism with political tension, Hatoum questions how space is regulated, surveilled and colonised. Her work does not offer solutions, but rather builds environments of experience and suspension, in which viewers are continuously called upon to reposition themselves, to negotiate their perspective and to “see” what remains behind the scenes. In this sense, her works act as critical zones of perception, where the artistic gesture becomes a tool of excavation, deconstruction and unveiling.

The exhibition’s title plays on the double meaning of “seen” and “scene,” suggesting a gaze beyond appearances, toward the hidden spaces of human experience: memory, trauma and the desire for resistance.

Through works that merge formal research with profound political reflection, Behind the Seen challenges the power structures that shape how we see and inhabit the world, revealing what is often concealed behind appearances.

Hatoum’s work revolves around a set of fundamental tensions: inside and outside, visible and invisible, attraction and repulsion, control and vulnerability. From the very beginning, her practice has functioned as a critical device capable of disrupting the supposed neutrality of spaces, objects and forms, showing how every surface can conceal a threshold of ambiguity or a zone of conflict.

The dimension of the body—not only as a physical organism but also as a political and affective entity—is central to her work. Her early performances in the 1980s directly explored the relationship between the female body, urban space and surveillance devices. Later, the body disappears from the stage, replaced by traces, imprints, or symbolic objects of confinement: cages, beds and hospital screens become spatial metaphors of its absence-presence, evoking a vulnerable subjectivity exposed to control.

The theme of control runs through Hatoum’s research by means of minimal structures that incorporate allusive, threatening materials: barbed wire, iron, glass and steel. Domestic objects—beds, chairs, utensils—are destabilised, transformed into instruments of containment or aggression. This unsettled domesticity suggests that dynamics of power, coercion and discipline can permeate even spaces of intimacy.

Her personal experience—born in Beirut to a Palestinian family, unable to return home because of war—informs a poetics of displacement that manifests itself not so much in narrative terms, but in spatial and perceptual ones. Territory is often evoked through fragmented forms, impossible cartographies, or obstructed paths. Twelve Windows (2012–2013) is an emblematic example: created in collaboration with the craftswomen of the Lebanese association Inaash, it presents twelve panels of traditional Palestinian embroidery suspended in space on red washing lines. The installation creates an environment crossed by visual and physical obstacles, evoking the themes of diaspora and exiled identity.

This topography of instability also appears in works such as Divide (2025), a hospital screen turned into a dangerous barrier using barbed wire, or Mirror (2025), a grid-like structure devoid of any reflective function, which returns to the viewer not their own image, but the opacity of limitations.

Untitled (red velvet) (1996) presents a fragment of red velvet inscribed with a drawing reminiscent of intestines or lobes of the brain: a recurring motif in the artist’s work, exploring the body’s vulnerability and the fine line between attraction and repulsion.

The large Untitled (bed springs) I (2018) is a lithograph created by placing industrial bed springs directly onto lithographic stone. The result is a negative image, reminiscent of an X-ray, in which the regular grid geometry deforms into a biomorphic composition, suggesting a tension between structure and collapse.

Joining this core of works are new pieces produced for the exhibition during Hatoum’s residency at the Museo Nivola. Among these is the series of ceramic bird cages created with the artisanal workshop Terrapintada, in which one of Hatoum’s recurring structural motifs returns: the grid as a form of containment, confinement and control. Here, the use of ceramic—a fragile material tied to decorative tradition—introduces a visual and symbolic tension.

Also in ceramic are the forms of Gathering, resembling compressed blocks of earth that recall desolate landscapes, into which the artist has embedded old, rusted nails, like small human figures clustered into fragmentary communities. The elongated shapes and rough surfaces of the nails evoke the postwar sculptures of Giacometti, an artist with whom Hatoum has established a long-distance dialogue in a current exhibition at the Barbican in London.

Shooting Star I and II, with their spiky shapes suspended from the ceiling, appear like exploded geometry. Metallic rays converge in a dense and traumatic core, evoking both a celestial body and a detonating device. Created in collaboration with blacksmith Emanuele Ziranu, the work combines technical precision with visual brutality. The structures radiate force but also instability and their presence in space—hanging, floating, threatening—acts as a point of perceptual tension.

Using traditional technique unique to Sardinia, weaver Mariantonia Urru has crafted a carpet entitled Eye Spy. The apparently random pattern is a translation of a pixelated image from a digital drone recording — an aerial view of a crowd— into a soft, tactile surface.

Wool, a warm and familiar material, paradoxically becomes the vehicle of a cold, detached vision typical of military or urban control technologies. The result is a carpet that does not comfort but disturbs: a visual device disguised as a domestic object, questioning our relationship with privacy, vulnerability and the gaze of power.

Many of the themes that characterise Hatoum’s work converge in the installation that gives the exhibition its title, Behind the Seen, an assemblage of everyday objects arranged in space with apparent casualness but charged with layers of meaning. A bed, a colander bristling with spikes like a nail bomb, a tangle of metal wires, a rickety chair, a stuffed toy overturned under a table and a skinned soccer ball: each element evokes a scene, an interrupted experience. The very title suggests a double register: what is shown and what remains hidden, suppressed, invisible. It is a topography of the domestic unconscious, a fragmented interior that interrogates our relationship with inhabited space, trauma and memory.

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Irina Jasnowski Pascual, Plane Volume 
12.09 – 26.10.2025

Irina Jasnowski Pascual’s show “Plane Volume” follows the rules of the optical into real and imagined inside spaces. Inside spaces such as the sparkling, spheric volume inside a fountain bubble, just maxing out on its uplift in midair, right before the collapse. Or the inside of a bronze sculpture, for example: some abstract, tunnelling interiority, whose outsides gives shape to the legend of St. Martin sword dividing his long, heavily draped overcoat to share it with the freezing poor. 

But the artist seems to have decided against the clandestine and the darkness that is inherent to these internal spaces. She turns up transparency by the see through handling of see through material that traditionally asks for outsourced manufacturing and silicone caked bonding for years to come. Instead the material is artistically swept towards the edge of a precarious production that offers a tipsy, momentary balance where her findings are neither stash nor scrap. Gnawed off shards, just barely fused with scarce Amazon UV glue, encase a cheese shaped foam piece, of the naturally dust and smudge collecting kind, preserved in a protect the buffer logic. A triangular runway cast in a studio destroying process that pulled the latex gloves (sticking to its underside) and other trash down into its swirling maelstrom, still sending out its hum to make the Lufthansa plane post card vibrate during their taxi towards vanishing point. Other traces of air travel amazement can be found in the cut out architectural reliefs. The discarded foam boards previously packed the framed photograph of the Apollo 11 rocket launch in 1969. You can still see the staining imprints of that possibly pompous brass frame, as well as the Grand Street Adress of the New York Framer on the simplified cityscapes and their isometric mapping. Discarded remainders of a technical era, same as the West German Lufthansa merch, that held the promise of progress and ascension of all sorts inside its glorious clouds of exhaust. Wooden apparillos of ll fitting flimsyness, their complicated angles over and undercut and out of line, crowned with bubbles of acrylic sheets disfigured into shape by a heat gun. These sculptures give us a forced periscopic vision of the gallery ceiling, shifting a skyward gaze into a theatrical POV without even a neck bend.

Here too it seems that space management is turned against itself, creating a volume that allows access instead of blocking off something else. A paradox that widens the panorama and integrates the non representative niches beyond the corruption of beauty (Yes!). We gain dimensionality, yet at the same time, the 3D refusal of the postcards, the flattened buildings and the many sheets of mirror and glass also puts us at a looking glass distance, which is surprisingly soothing, despite all the shards and raw edges. This also might be because of the science museum references and a sculptural approach to bell jar these fragile arrangements by conservatory means, without adding judgement of value to the display. Although structurally shabby, these compositions are weirdly

aesthetically pure. Channeling the clarity of exploding diagrams, for example of a camera inside an owner’s handbook, the works leave little room for opaque, unclear ambitions to reroute or block the flow. In that sense the show makes available instructions to re stage primal artistic intentions alongside the non expressive basics of physics that we still can trust, even if all the world’s glue gave way.

Peter Wächtler

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In plain, Emma Hummerhielm Carlén (*1991, Stockholm) develops a series of sculptural interventions that intertwine closely with the architecture of the Moltkerei Werkstatt and respond to it with precision. The point of departure is the geometry of the space. Vertical works unfold freely as spatial adapters, functioning like hinges that absorb, shift, and reconfigure structures. The title refers to plainness and the absence of ornament, while also evoking plane, surface, and openness. The works infiltrate the existing architecture without overpowering it. Reduced gestures generate an unexpected intensity, amounting to an analysis of the functions of materiality and representation.

Layers of wax applied to photographs transform into objects that resist unequivocal readability. From photographic fragments emerge hybrid works in which what appears fixed can at any moment be set into motion. Out of this tension arise situations that shift perception and unfold a fragile poetics. Exemplary in this regard is the work Tilted River, which depicts a water surface. The fragment does not appear as landscape but as a tilted plane, where traces of wax together with reflections transform the pictorial space into an almost abstract field. At the same time, the fusion of frame and image generates a relief-like structure that seems to transcend the boundaries of media.

In plain, these considerations are translated into a spatial language. The interventions remain restrained and yet atmospherically intense. By interweaving photographic surfaces with architectural structures, they generate situations that renegotiate the relationship between space, image, and body. Ideas that once motivated early conceptual art—reproducibility and seriality – are present in Carlén’s work, yet they are abstracted and transferred into spatial terms. She situates her practice at the intersection of photographic vision and sculptural consciousness. The space is not understood as a neutral shell but as an active partner, rendered newly legible and experientially palpable through precise interventions.

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Spanning the Loge Capitain and Albertusstrasse spaces, Sometimes channel 4 brings together recent paintings and works on paper by Canadian artist Jean-François Lauda. On Albertusstrasse, two large yet disparate canvases face each other. Like sitting too close to the television and watching patterns in static, the paintings are set here to pull the viewer into close contact with their expansive surfaces.

Lauda’s paintings unfold through layered processes of building, scraping, and revision. Although a work may begin with a drawing, a personal photograph, or a musical recollection, these sources serve as quiet foundations rather than narrative anecdotes, becoming obscured or erased as the painting develops through friction, delay, and interruption.

Traces accumulate as dry textures, pencil marks, and lingering edges. At once deliberately unresolved and shaped with precision, this ambiguity is held in the painting’s surface, bounded by quick gestures and slow revisions. This tension creates a space where recognition is always at play, even when incomplete. Surpassing their own process, Lauda’s paintings exist in the want to remain open.

Jean-François Lauda is a painter based in Montreal, Canada. Recent solo exhibitions include Some exceeding twelve minutes at Daniel Faria in Toronto (2025), and Big Pill at Galerie Eli Kerr in Montreal. Lauda’s work has previously appeared in group exhibitions at Clearing in New York, 2024, with solo presentations at Shoot the Lobster in New York, 2023, and Fonderie Darling in Montreal, in 2019. Sometimes channel 4 is Lauda’s first solo presentation in Germany.

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Turtle Pond

The shell that carries the world in Central Park,
where pets are let loose.

A snapping turtle bites a stick in two.

Anxiety as a stone at the edge of the lake.

That part of the show where the contestant monologues for long minutes.
What are the prompts?

Long silences can be monologues, too,
cut short in Reality TV.

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Room Constant

I haven’t written by hand in a long time, until now. New habits so boring. I have no light or wifi in my house, and I don’t want to think that’s the only reason I’m writing by hand, but maybe it’s true. I wonder when I’ll write a true letter again. It should be right now, for whoever, however, without waiting for a mundane need that might never come. Although I must say that over time, an old fear has grown in me of the contours of the material world, of concreteness, of objects per se. Even now I write with a pen that can be erased. Sometimes I try to deceive myself and say it’s out of respect, but it’s a lack of courage.

My printing machine just made some resurrection noises. That means the power is back, and I am afflicted by the crisis of an angel II, as if I didn’t have the will to remove the light myself. I had just lit a small candle entering in the mood for love, in the mood for handwriting. 

The empty space and the silence. On this occasion, I prefer oyente over listener.

To my left I see the Posthuman Dada Guide. Under my chin, the Pocket Handbook, Noise, Vibration, Light, Thermal Comfort. This last one is my new obsession and my joy. With all my heart, I want the power to go out. Now there’s a booming storm and the balcony windows are open. I’ve managed to get used to the city’s Centro cacophony if I don’t think about it, but when I do, it doesn’t appear; it bursts in, gigantic, filling the room. There isn’t an empty corner left. I can barely hold a small empty silence inside me.

Brüel & Kjær is a Danish sound and vibration measurement company, the authors of my new Pocket Handbook. At the beginning, it has the date September 1986. At the end, Printed in Denmark by Naerum Offset. People who are knowledgeable about sound surely know this famous company, but for me, it’s something new, incomprehensible, and enigmatic. It almost seems like an ancient papyrus with mysterious information that I must protect. I still haven’t decided if I want to study and understand it. If I do, maybe it would lose its negativity in my life. Or is it just laziness to learn?

That little room with the checkered floor seems empty, yet during the day at times it fills with the intense vibrations of the massive speakers they sell in the local shops. It’s even more transgressive and intense than the brutality of an object: it not only moves through walls but invades your organs, shaking them at its mercy. After 7 p.m., the air barely begins to empty with silence.

But it’s a known fact that being quiet isn’t the same as listening. To listen, you need to empty yourself. The density of the plane and the lightness of the void. The whole holding the hollow. After a while of my mind bouncing on them, it seems to me that a silent and full architecture is like a person who knows how to have a conversation with another. An archaic and novel habit. 

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Daniel Stubenvoll
Nachbarschaftsromantik

September 25 – October 25, 2025

SOOT is pleased to present a solo exhibition by the German and Frankfurt-based multidisciplinary artist Daniel Stubenvoll, titled Nachbarschaftsromantik. This marks Stubenvoll’s second exhibition with SOOT and his first solo show at the gallery. The exhibition features newly created sculptures, paintings, and installations.

Stubenvoll consistently develops his works in series, forming a network of interconnected pieces – each new work gains additional depth through its relationship with the preceding works.

A passage from Stubenvoll’s Anglo-German short story WORLF (2024) reads:

‘Back there, directly opposite the escalator leading to the underground, there used to be a large white wall with an advertisement for a fast car. Now, there was nothing. Also behind me – nothing, as though the escalator I had just taken to the surface had never existed.’

The painting series In ruins (2025), materialized from this narrative, was first shown at um Fragile Affären at WAF, Vienna.

While some works in this series evoke a traditional painterly impression, their supports consist of the unconventional material jute and plastic mesh stretched over wooden frames. The use of white paint and a reduced visual language – oscillating between abstraction and figurative moments produces a sense of elegance and lightness. Gates, columns, and windows are subtly suggested, referencing architecture both in motif and formal decisions with the usage of wall paint, a recurring theme in Stubenvoll’s oeuvre.

With the decisive brush strokes and haptic painting surface, these works reflect the concept of the ‘quick fix’– the tendency to seek seemingly efficient solutions using (often digital) tools. Originating in Silicon Valley, this approach has long influenced architecture and urban planning, operating under the idea that ‘there are no problems, only challenges to be solved through minor adjustments and optimizations.’ Such a mindset conceals errors and maintains the illusion of an intact system. Viewed through the lens of the short story WORLF, the In ruins-series overlays white paint reminiscent of these ‘quick fixes’, offering a disquieting diagnosis of contemporary society.

The three new works in the In ruins-series, created for this exhibition, are set on Los Angeles’ Sunset Boulevard. They evoke imagery of landscapes faded by prolonged exposure to strong sunlight and dry air: posters whose printed surfaces have disappeared, leaving only vinyl tape, and gates or arches whose contours eventually got erased. As with contemporary information and phenomena, once people become accustomed to them, they lose interest; when encountering the faded and disappearing contours, only a vague feeling for those possible images of the past arises.

In the Neighbors-series of sculptural works, carefully arranged brass plates reminiscent of blinds delineate the boundary between interior and exterior through a window-like apparatus. This boundary assumes a variable character depending on the angle and degree of opening of the plates, conveying a tranquil yet distinct personality. Through open brass plates, viewers can see the silver surfaces – architectural insulation material – installed inside shining directly toward them. Conversely, closed blinds obscure the interior from outside view, while from within, one might glimpse the viewer departing in a car parked outside. A playful balancing act between one’s personal awareness of everyday surroundings like one’s neighbors and the harmless, socially acceptable notion of voyeurism. Swifting between different modes of figuration, the spacing of the plates evokes a silent rhythm reminiscent of a glockenspiel or music box.

The exhibition’s title, the neologism Nachbarschaftsromantik (Neighbor-hood Romanticism), invites reflection on how individuals living next to each other in daily life might remain ‘romantic neighbors’ through the intimate boundary of the home, leaving space for an idealized vision of the relationship with the person next door. Emphasising the atmosphere of domestic rituals, Neighbors (Key Rack) as a sculptural work conceptually intends to include the house key of the respective owner, a crucial element of our daily routine.

In the installation My Left Hand’s Dream of Time for Us All, the work juxtaposes the principles of universal human rights and safety with the mechanisms of regulation and exclusion imposed by particular authorities. Using the concept of time, which flows equally for all, as a mediating framework, the work visualizes this tension, functioning as a silent yet powerful device that delivers ethical and political signals to the viewer.

 

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ARCH and Melas Martinos are thrilled to announce the opening of ‘Windows’, an exhibition of artist Rosalind Nashashibi in two parts.

Rosalind Nashashibi is a painter and filmmaker based in London, from Palestinian and Northern Irish heritage. In both media she is preoccupied with looking, to the extent of passing over onto the side of the subject in a way that can be disconcerting and yet deeply empathetic. Her films are often non-linear, punctuated by manifestations of power dynamics and collective histories. In her painting, familiar signs such as a pair of swans or a canvas divided by a cross or X, intrigue us into looking at them anew, and her references to the artists of late 19th century Paris are dives into the past to bring back unexpectedly new experiences.

Rosalind Nashashibi received her BA in Painting from Sheffield Hallam University, Sheffield after which she attended the Glasgow School of Art, Glasgow where she received her MFA. As part of her Master’s degree, Nashashibi participated in a three-month exchange program in Valencia, California at CalArts in 2000. In 2020, Nashashibi became artist in residence at the National Gallery in London. She was a Turner Prize nominee in 2017, and represented Scotland in the 52nd Venice Biennale. Her work has been included in Documenta14, Manifesta 7, the Nordic Triennial, and Sharjah 10.

The exhibition will open and run simultaneously across both spaces.

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Checklist:

Yun Heo, No Shelf Life, 2025, Installation View, Bio Gallery Seoul, Seoul, Photo:Hong Chulgi

Blue Samsonite, My Mom’s Umbrella, Arena Goggles, Casted Thermoplastic, Rice, Instant Coffee Powder, Cacao Powder, Metal Rust from Steal Mold, Synthetic Dye, Food Dye, Pattern Fabric, Suiting Fabric, Toiletpaper Ja! on Bio Cotton Popeline 130 g/m2, Photo of Taunusstrasse 2022 on Polyester Satin 150g/ m2, Photo of My Eyes on Screen in Nyc, Luggage Rack, Cords, Packing Cords, Billy cup, Vitamin Well Recover, Nalgene, Americano, Vitamin Water, Wood Sheets, Toiletpaper Ja! on Polyester Satin 150g/ m2, Artist’s Frames, Life Savers Pep O Mint on Polyester Satin 105g/m2, Powerade Scarlet Storm, Photo of Shinheungro on Polyester Satin 150g/m2, Photo of Ludwigstrasse on Polyester Satin 150g/ m2, Béla’s Fabric, Life Savers Wint O Green on Polyester Satin 150g/m2, Sun Bleached Plastic Roof, Cords, Ropes, Gatorade, Béla’s Sport Bottle, Recup, Aluminum Casted Crumpled Papers, Sam’s Cap, ‘Till Death Do Us Part’ on Polyester Satin 150g/m2, Suiting Fabric, Wood Sheets, Scanned ‘Too Much Coffee Man’ on Polyester Satin 150g/m2, Scanned Moving Bag on Polyester Satin 150g/m2, My Mom’s Pyjamas, Espresso Maker, Staatlich Fachingen, Evian, Oat Milk Cappuccino, Cords, Ropes, My Mom’s Bojagi, Travel Bag, Walther König Bookshop Bag, Casted Thermoplastic, Wood Dust, Choco Müsli, Cacaopowder, Coffeepowder, Spelt, Buckwheats, Flaxseed, Rice, Cotton powder, Béla’s Working Tee, Toiletpaper Regina on Bio Cotton Popeline 130 g/m2, Plastic Moving Box, Aluminum Casted Crumpled Papers, Suiting Fabric, Wood Sheets, Lava Heavy-Duty Hand Cleanser on Bio Cotton Popeline 130 g/ m2, Plastic Moving Bag filled with Leftover Studio Fabrics, Ebay on Polyester Satin 150g/m2, Life Savers Wint O Green on Polyester Satin 150g/m2, Soju, Powerade Zero Lime, Sparkle Water, Cords, Gypsum Boards, Sun Bleached Plastic Roof, Suiting Fabric, Wood Sheets 

 

 

Exhibition Text:

1

From antiquity onward, the ‘good life’ was imagined as a life with purpose. In the Greek eudaimonic tradition, the value is in telos; the worth of life is judged through fulfilment.
This premise that life must justify itself through striving persisted, only transformed. In the consumer society Baudrillard describes, the purpose is displaced in consumption: we consume experiences as if they were ends in themselves. For Byung-Chul Han, the imperative turns inward: infinite self-optimisation through positivity and achievement, fractured into infinite microtasks. 
Yun Heo’s sculptural installations sit inside this tension. Working with the everyday debris of survival, they lie not solutions but symptoms themselves.
Her works do not diagnose or prescribe. Instead, they witness. They register humour, exhaustion, and tenderness in equal measure: a nod to the absurd ways we improvise continuity when purpose collapses, when insufficiency becomes the condition of being alive. In these fragile assemblages, one sees not a life fulfilled, but a life taped and glued together. They suggest that incompleteness is not failure but a shared condition. Perhaps insufficiency is not an error but the shape of being alive. Perhaps the exhausted life, precisely in its refusal to justify itself, carries its own orientation — not toward achievement but toward continuing, not wealth but texture, not answers but presence.

Text by Ellen Yeon Kim (Ellen Yeon Kim works as an artist/writer and translator.)

Yun Heo constructs sculptural installations that witness how one handles societal conditions: examining how one copes, manages symptoms, and carries on. Through both collecting and fabricating, she weaves elements such as branded imagery, personal effects, and humour into visual narratives, documenting these tender human responses to exhaustion without prescription. Heo lives and works in Frankfurt am Main, Germany. She graduated as Meisterschülerin from Städelschule.

2

This text has been written to accompany the exhibition and may not reflect the artist’s point of view.

Why do I live? I cannot face the cursor winking after that sentence. I close the laptop. Then open it again. 

Why do I live. I live because I was born. Because I haven’t died yet. But what do I live for?

When the film How Do You Live?[1] came out, the internet twisted the title into memes: How long will you keep living like that? Why do you live like this? What are you going to do with your life? Why were you even born? I lay in bed sick, snorting with laughter at the absurd fragments.

That year, sickness pinned me to bed for most of it. Pain crashed over me like waves, sweeping parts of me away. Pain or not, shouldn’t I get up and do something? I’d occasionally get up, down coffee, stuff myself with painkillers, scrape my body into some task, then collapse again. Drowning in my own breath. If I couldn’t produce, then consume. Even memes, snorting with laughter. How do I live?

People assume life has a purpose. A self-directed life of goals and accomplishments looks smooth and beautiful, like wood impeccably joined. Is anything lost in the joinery? Is there room for it to breathe?

The eudaimonic tradition: the good life has purpose, lived in pursuit of it. Only at the end, if the purpose is fulfilled, is a life judged worthwhile. But what if you never reach the end? I won’t shed this illness. Does that make me nothing?

So what if I’ve become nothing? Defiance rises, but I am worn down by the chorus. ‘Stay strong!’ ‘You can do it!’ ‘Don’t let the illness change you!’

The demand to be positive, to look ahead, to live forward leaves me hollow. Since when is positivity this violent? Painkillers, focus pills, coffee like water — all of it just to keep checking boxes to no end. Is this living? How do I live? I collapse again.

Lying there, I remember a video: a woman on stage talking about her sister. How hard she worked for the future—saving coffee money, sacrificing sleep, living only for what came next. 

Then she died suddenly in a car accident. 

Her sister’s life wasn’t wrong. A life toward a goal is admirable. But should negating the present for the future count as virtue? Is life valuable only in striving? Who declares the incomplete insufficient? What if insufficiency is simply the shape of being alive?

The cheerfulness of ‘you can do anything if you try’ clings to me like dirty grease I can’t scrub off. It feels like shouting encouragement at someone on their last breath.

Why do I live? Because I was born. Because I haven’t died yet. I am someone who has become nothing, who has lived a messy and painful life. That gives me questions I wouldn’t have otherwise. Some days, I still grind myself down. Other days, I can lie on my back, eating tangerines, unbothered. Then it starts again: shouldn’t I be doing something?

Trudging through self-flaying, through the need for control, I see others too lead lives taped and glued. All I can give is a nod.

Why do I live? I don’t know. Who cares.

[1] Miyazaki’s 2023 film, titled after Yoshino’s 1937 novel. English release: The Boy and the Heron.

 

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Working together

Marlon Kroll

September 13th – October 25th, 2025

 

EN

Galerie Eli Kerr is pleased to present Working together, our second solo exhibition with German Canadian artist Marlon Kroll. In his work When you sang for me (conference I) Kroll packs a space into an object. The suitcase, comparable to a torso, meets the viewer at waist level, while one must bend to bring their eye to the work. What one sees could be the vaulted ceilings of an opera house, or the anatomy of a throat. This strange coordination of the body, and movement from exterior to interior modes drives us towards the encounter with Kroll’s work. Over the past few years he has established a distinct artistic vocabulary where through formal and relational analogy the body is mirrored with forms from the designed world. Previous drawings and sculptures materialize through looking for emotional and spiritual resonance with the built environment, where staircases could represent a spine, a radiator could be a ribcage, or an HVAC system part could stand in for a lung. 

On the short wall in the gallery a large color pencil drawing on a bedsheet is revealed only once the viewer begins to navigate the room. Controlled short strokes of color populate space like vibrations in a graph recording. The work evokes a sort of schematic or top view in its compositional space. Similar to sheet music, forms overlap and repeat, doubling as if they are in motion.

In the center of the room two stacks of disk-like cylinders are connected by stretched nylon bands as they rotate in unison. One stack is motorized, helping to revolve the other. Titled Hard drive, the work continues Kroll’s sculptural language where he draws from the relationship between the body and machines. Kroll’s sculptures develop through an intuitive and iterative computer modelling process where he seeks to arrive at precise objects that he describes as “platonic solids”. Along this journey a set of influences begin to shape the work, including revolving doors, Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, the proportions of the artist’s own body, the metrics of heartbeats per minute, and rotations per minute. Moving at a constant and busy pace the work recalls a recording device, as the friction between nylon and the papered surface gives sounds of hovering, breathing and stretching.

What the suitcase and the hard drive share is that they are both formats for storage, keeping information transportable and retrievable, echoing the speculative content of Kroll’s drawing practice. Kroll inverts spaces and scales, situating our body inside and outside of these containers, where information gets jumbled between banal documents and personal items that are deeply sentimental. In Working together, Kroll offers an allegorical meditation on being shaped in tandem through memory, distance and intimacy. Through this disorientation, the works ask us to consider what we carry and accumulate —both literally and metaphorically—and how the containers we use to organize our lives inevitably reshape what they hold. 

Travailler ensemble

Marlon Kroll

13 septembre – 25 octobre, 2025

 

FR

La Galerie Eli Kerr présente Travailler ensemble [Working together], notre deuxième exposition solo avec l’artiste germano-canadien Marlon Kroll. Dans son œuvre When you sang for me (conference I), Kroll condense un espace dans un objet. La valise, comparable à un torse, arrive à hauteur de taille, forçant celui qui la regarde à se pencher pour l’observer. Ce que l’on découvre à l’intérieur ressemble aux plafonds voûtés d’un opéra, ou à l’anatomie d’une gorge. Cette étrange chorégraphie du corps, ce mouvement qui nous place entre les modes extérieur et intérieur, nous guide vers la rencontre de l’œuvre de Kroll. Au fil des dernières années, il a développé un vocabulaire artistique distinct où le corps se reflète, par analogie formelle et relationnelle, avec des formes du monde manufacturé, où des escaliers pourraient représenter une colonne vertébrale, un radiateur une cage thoracique, ou une pièce de système d’aération tiendrait lieu de poumon.

Sur le petit mur de la galerie, un grand dessin au crayon de couleur sur un drap de coton ne se révèle qu’une fois que l’on commence à parcourir la pièce. De courts traits de couleur maîtrisés rythment l’espace pictural, telles les vibrations d’un enregistreur graphique. Sa composition évoque une sorte de schéma ou de vue du dessus. Comme sur une partition de musique, les formes se superposent et se répètent, se dédoublant comme en mouvement.

Au centre de la pièce, deux piles de cylindres discoïdaux sont reliées par des bandes de nylon tendues et tournent à l’unisson. L’une des piles est motorisée, entraînant l’autre dans sa rotation. Intitulée Hard drive, l’œuvre poursuit le langage sculptural de Kroll, où il puise dans la relation entre le corps et les machines. Les sculptures de Kroll se développent à travers un processus de modélisation informatique intuitif et itératif, par lequel il cherche à aboutir à des objets précis qu’il décrit comme des « solides platoniciens ». Au fil de ce parcours, un ensemble d’influences façonnent l’œuvre, notamment les portes tournantes, l’Homme de Vitruve de de Vinci, les proportions du corps de l’artiste, ainsi que les mesures des battements de cœur et des rotations par minute. Se déplaçant à un rythme constant et soutenu, l’œuvre rappelle un appareil d’enregistrement, émettant des sons de bourdonnement, de respiration et d’étirement.

Ce que la valise et le disque dur ont en commun, c’est d’être tous deux des formats de stockage rendant l’information transportable et récupérable, faisant écho au contenu spéculatif de la pratique du dessin de Kroll. Ses œuvres inversent les espaces et les échelles, situant notre corps à l’intérieur et à l’extérieur de ces contenants, où l’information se mélange entre des documents banals et des objets personnels à forte charge sentimentale. Working together propose ainsi une méditation allégorique sur ce qui nous façonne : un jeu constant entre la mémoire, la distance et l’intimité.  Cette désorientation nous invite à considérer ce que nous transportons et accumulons — au propre comme au figuré — et la manière dont les structures que nous utilisons pour organiser nos vies finissent par altérer la nature même de ce qu’elles renferment.

Marlon Kroll est un artiste germano-canadien vivant et travaillant à Montréal. Il détient un BFA en céramique de l’Université Concordia et a été l’un des neuf récipiendaires du programme de studios de la Fonderie Darling de 2019 à 2022. Il a également reçu le prix William et Meredith Saunderson pour les artistes émergents en 2020.

Parmi ses récentes expositions sélectionnées, on retrouve Majestic Infinite Inner Choir, 12.26 (Los Angeles) ; All that we cannot see avec Casey Callahan, Baader-Meinhof (Omaha) ; Cold Open, Unit 17 (Vancouver) ; et The Kroll Show avec Bryce Kroll, Gern En Regalia (New York) ; Lullaby, Management (New York) ; Map of Dusk, Afternoon Projects (Shanghai) ; Receiver, Galerie Acappella (Naples) ; Nesting, Fondation Phi (Montréal) ; Stress Tested, Public Gallery (London) ; A Chronique Fear, Marvin Gardens (New York) ; Rifts, hovels, a sighing tide, Afternoon Projects (Vancouver) ; La machine qui enseignait des airs aux oiseaux, Musée d’art contemporain de Montréal ; At the centre of my ironic faith, Cassandra Cassandra (Toronto) ; Red Sky at Morning, Interstate Projects (New York) ; et Thirsty Things, Clint Roenisch (Toronto).ironic faith, Cassandra Cassandra (Toronto) ; Red Sky at Morning, Interstate Projects (New York) ; et Thirsty Things, Clint Roenisch (Toronto). 

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ASSS FOR SPASSS
Corey Bartle-Sanderson
4.09.2025
Carriers

Home is something. A place where you can escape from the world and spread out completely in your own. When we are lucky enough to have such a place— to be provided with a roof and walls to preserve our body heat—we can fill it with objects, make it comfortable, fill it with stories that are dear to us, that reassure us—and even with flowers cut for the occasion. Left there for a while, until dust comes to bury them. As a degrading agent, dust is considered physically harmful: it retains moisture, causes oxidation, infiltrates textile fibres and alters pigments. Aesthetically disturbing or a sign of neglect, it also requires constant effort to remove. Dust is considered a foreign body, a silent threat, a symbol of the passing of time. It accurately reveals certain habits we have with regard to objects: those we use frequently and only allow to become partially covered, those we dust conscientiously, and others laden with memories that tell our stories, displayed, then forgotten, sometimes rediscovered, or surreptitiously abandoned on a pavement, sent back in a parcel, sold at a flea market, stored, lost… Tirelessly, the tedious work of combating dust helps to stabilise the object in a fixed form, ideally timeless, in a kind of air-conditioned eternity. But this operation is also a fiction of purity. Dust reminds us that objects are porous, alive, situated. This is why one of the main principles of preventive conservation is quarantine: controlled atmospheres, airtight display cases, regular cleaning protocols, inert materials. This fight against dust raises an ethical and philosophical tension: by systematically eliminating dust, what exactly are we preserving? The object in its original state? Often perceived as a nuisance, dust appears to be a sign of neglect or decline, an organic trace of what was once tangible in minuscule proportions: rubbish, dead skin, pollen, ashes, fibres, crumbs,… Yet, much more than a simple residue, it is a discreet but constant presence, a silent reminder that everything that exists is becoming something else; it is proof of impermanence. Everything we build, everything we are, eventually fragments, disintegrates, mingles with this fine, almost invisible matter that accumulates in forgotten corners. It is the flesh of time crumbling away. In its own way, it brings stories to a close. Dust is also a favour done to objects: a chance to age, to perish, to be forgotten. To fade away peacefully, in a state of disuse. Dust honours them; they remain silent. Attempting to eradicate it is to renew an existential necessity, to claim an obligation to serve—at least to something. In this exhibition, Corey raises our awareness of this language. He talks about the nest, a shroud for our memory, about dust as a cataract of tenderness, a nostalgic bubble, a joy that systematically anchors you in the present: through the gap it creates between your memory and this moment. Corey evokes the way we cherish the objects and places that inhabit us—the way we preserve them, seal them away as if to love them even longer. He duplicates the ephemeral identically, to keep it available to the eye and make what was meant to fade away in an instant last longer. The nest is feeling home somewhere, after compiling, collecting, cherishing, accumulating, preserving, displaying, tidying, maintaining, packing, archiving, protecting, arranging, repairing. Surrounding oneself with meaning and values. It is the echo of the studio to the home, the depth that the artist magnifies in this celebration of the dust that fills a spider’s web; creeps into the alcove of the building where a bird builds its nest; settles between the subway tracks that rats run along; between the cobblestones that pigeons tread on. The plasticity of dust serves the full narrative potential of its hosts. From this soft, tiny substance, as if passed through thousands of sieves, Corey reveals its plastic qualities and the necessary depth it brings to bear in its interaction with the objects it covers— as if to emphasise what the past does to the things of the present. Thus revealed, it is characterised by great meticulousness which, as finely as its subject, confers immense care on each thing: in the replicas of ephemeral objects in resin, in the choice of collected and compiled elements, and in all the details that arrange them together. In this way, Corey gives us the opportunity to look closely at the scene unfolding before us, to sincerely question the objects we are looking at and the context in which they are situated. Corey gives us the power to create a memory that we will cherish for a long time. And an opportunity to see through his eyes. Blues.

a§s would like to extend a warm thank you to Corey for his amazing work and all the organisation from London that made this possible; the entire spasss team for offering Corey this residency; RendezVous for this wonderful programme in Brussels, gallerytalknet sharing the project, Matthieu and Andy for the equipment, François for his support and hospitality, Sam for his poem—and everyone else who contributed to this project. Thank you. A limited edition of 20 copies has been published to mark the exhibition. May our joys remain ✌

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Titled Reverse Cry 1–7, Melanie Kitti’s new frescoes are not quite sculptures and not quite paintings. The series is made with a technique similar to the so-called lime paintings (kalkmålningar) of medieval churches found in Sm.land and Sk.ne, where the artist grew up and now lives, and in Denmark, where she first began working with the method – lands rich in limestone. Like the church paintings, Kitti’s works present a muted, earthy palette. They are materialised through a variety of substances both unstable and permanent: slaked lime putty paste, washed river sand, pigments, plaster, and hessian.

Accreted in layers over time, Kitti constructs these sculptural paintings by combining lime putty with sand and applying the mixture to a base, then adding pigments mixed with limewater to chemically bind the colours to the wet lime. She works within the limited time window before the mixture sets, carving and scraping the surface to reveal previous layers and textures. When the carbonation process sets in, the works are once again turned into stone. This ritualistic cycle of addition and subtraction, where stone is transmuted into a liquid before being worked over, treated, and left to become stone again, appears as much an uncovering as a making.

The notion of unearthing something past and forgotten, yet significant, is reinforced by a recurrent motif across the series: dinosaurs. Freud likened the work of psychoanalysis to that of the archaeologist, as both are involved in excavation. Here, as many artists do, Kitti in a sense takes on both of these roles. Still, there is a difference between dusting off and reconstructing inert ruins and artefacts, and reviving ancient creatures that were once alive and, according to popular belief, terrifying. Robert Smithson, an artist obsessed with dinosaurs, once reminded us that the etymology of “dinosaur” derives from the Greek words deinos (terrible) and sauros (lizard).

There is a distinctive attention given to these so-called terrible lizards in Kitti’s works. Her close-ups suggest intimacy: the single foot of a Brachiosaurus, the dinosaur made iconic through the Jurassic Park franchise; the skeleton of a Stegosaurus, one of the most misunderstood dinosaurs, long believed, falsely, to be among the least intelligent of its kind. A crocodile, a solitary, robust survivor of the mass extinction at the end of the Cretaceous, melts into the little legs of the artist’s daughter. Monstrous yet tender hybrids. A continuity is suggested. The Marian icons and flower decorations of the Scandinavian church paintings have here been replaced by what may stand in for the beasts of our pasts, both personal and collective. And the beasts seem not only to have been accepted, but perhaps even made mundane.

In other words, Kitti’s hybrids establish a lineage stretching from contemporary, historical time back to prehistory. “Jag bodde i en tidigare tid,” Kitti writes in one of her poems accompanying the exhibition (“I lived in another time,” with bodde also implying dwelling, inhabiting a time). In another of Kitti’s poems, we can read, in all caps: “JAG VILL INTE INNEH.LLA ROPET SOM JAG ALDRIG ROPADE”, which in translation sounds something like: I do not want to contain the call I never called. Is this call something externally imposed, and to be rejected? Or does the sentence express an intention not to hold back any calls, however much one is silenced?

Working across material processes and the written word, Kitti explores vulnerability, memory, and the trauma of inheritance. Her frescoes and poems seem to aspire to reach into an expanded historical unconscious, carrying, in the words of Canadian poet Lisa Robertson, “the breath of multiple temporalities into the present, not to protect or to sanctify the edifice of tradition, but to vulnerably figure historicity as an embodied stance, an address.” For Robertson, this is “the poem’s most important gift to politics.”

The exhibition Reverse Cry may point to a future that is also the past, returned in another form. Perhaps it invites us to reconsider inheritances forced upon us, and to redeem those once rejected or buried, allowing them to resurface and be seen anew, without judgement.

— Marie-Alix Isdahl @ma__lix

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Kunsthalle Palazzo presents „Das Schloss“, a solo exhibition by Martin Chramosta. The artist works at the interface of sculpture, drawing, performance and installation. His practice involves a multifaceted examination of architectural set pieces and historical references. Using materials such as iron, glazed ceramics and found objects, he creates fragmentary objects – such as fictitious gates and façades – that break with familiar architectural conventions. Schloss means castle in German. The concept of the castle interweaves and crystallizes multiple ideas and associations. The castle is a projection surface for historical, architectural, social or literary fantasies. A castle can be many things: magnificent, eerie, protective, forbidding, labyrinthine, mystical, decadent, elegant. In German, the term also has an interesting double meaning. “Schloss” not only refers to a building, but also to the device used to lock or bolt it. Etymologically, the term is certainly related to “schliessen” (to lock), perhaps also to “Schluss” (End). To enclose something, to lock something up, to protect something: a secret, a treasure, a story, a taboo.

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The group show brings together artistic positions that each develop dense visual systems and idiosyncratic cosmologies in their own right. The focus is not on the finished piece, but rather on the working process itself—on the act of making, and with it, a play with autonomous aesthetic structures, symbolic forms, and spontaneous decisions made in response to happenstance. Some of the works are composed of meticulous drawings, collages, or systems of notation that condense into intricate visual fields. They often oscillate between abstraction and figuration, or gesture toward spatiality without fully resolving it. These pieces are traversed by traces of sustained and concentrated engagement with the emerging compositions or material at hand. They function as subjective topographies—consistent yet personal systems that allow complexity without rigid closure, deriving their magic from this openness to the outcome. Other positions unfold in serial visual programs where stylized figures return as silent protagonists. These figures appear subjected to the aesthetic forces of the abstract systems they inhabit, absorbed into visual worlds governed by their own internal logic—a logic that plays out primarily on a formal level. What unites all of these practices is a deep trust in the unruly dynamics of one’s own working process. They express a deliberate balance between intuition and intention, between allowing the uncontrollable and making precise decisions. In doing so, they offer a modest yet persistent counterpoint to the logic of efficiency that shapes our time. The focus lies on small moments: fragments of intimacy set against the rhetoric of grand gestures. For there is a wondrous strength in the quiet force of the piecemeal. In Jennifer Aldred’s paintings, figures mingle with non-representational traces made using worn-out felt pens and solvent. Stumbling, they tumble through the vague pictorial space or cling to one another in pitiful, consoling poses. As beings without facial features, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses, they unfold their full expressive power through their long ponytails, pointed shoes, and the curvature of their tubular bodies—the few traits that allow them to appear as figures at all. Drawing on the trace-making familiar from restroom graffiti and on the logic of emojis, Jennifer Aldred explores the generation of meaning through reduced and coded forms of communication, such as the drawn or written line. For Eyrie Alzate, the conventional office printer is one tool among many, yet also a medium situated at the intersection of analog and digital image production. She combines painting, collage, sculpture, and video into works in which the analog and the digital permeate one another. In addition, she experiments with interventions in the printing process itself and subsequently reworks the resulting prints with paint, tape, other materials, and found objects, so that her works oscillate between figuration and abstraction. Not infrequently, she draws on motifs from popular media, such as a fragmented detail from an album cover by the musician Nico. Ericka Beckman’s drawings are sketches for her films, marked by a strong theatrical quality and consistently infused with both analog and digital animation elements. The drawings for her film Cinderella (1986) depict the eponymous protagonist in a world resembling a computer game. Male-coded robots, subjected to the rules of a digital cosmos, stagger through the convolutions of their world in search of a real heart. And Cinderella becomes entangled in the net of a matrix spun by these robots—a world she cannot escape, and a game she cannot win. Ada Friedman’s practice follows no linear order—her works emerge instead through a continual process of addition, subtraction, and layering. Drawing, collage, and painting intertwine with diary-like notes and situational observations. Friedman’s Wing and Wheel paintings are conceived as a twelve-part palimpsest that also functions as a proposal for her play, Helen Rides VII. The recurring motif of wheels framed by wings is gleaned from Helen Adam’s tale Riders to Blokula (1962), which served as the point of departure for the series. Appearing as a lattice-like window into another space, this cyclic pattern acts as a portal between worlds and holds a field of desire. Jack Salazar’s dense compositions unfold across the pages of his notebook—on the subway, in the park, or at home, yet always in an intimate mode of withdrawal. He begins with small moments that set the course for the composition. In this project of quite literally f inding a mode of concentration, he almost mediumistically envisions the next steps of the drawing, arising from earlier decisions as if already inscribed on the page. At times, however, he must rein in this flow and bring it back under control. The result are intricate webs that waver between graphic frontality and suggested depth. The two works by Julia Yerger mark a transitional point in her artistic practice. They stand at the intersection between her digital paintings and the attempt to translate them into physical reliefs. Their starting point is a multitude of small drawings created in her studio. On these snippets, Yerger works, among other things, with repetition and variation – a process that draws on the logic of animation. From the assembling of these fragments emerge compositions that seem to expand without restraint, producing images of explosive growth. Between fragment and condensation, works take shape in which abstraction and the suggestion of figuration interlock, forming a cartography of a process-driven studio practice.

 

– Otto Bonnen

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(PROTOTYPES)
JASON GRINGLER
MY-LAN HOANG-THUY
MACHTELD RULLENS
ULRIKE SCHULZE
IAN WAELDER

curated by
Michael Heym

Opening
Thursday, September 4, 2025, 6 pm

Parallel to DC OPEN

Duration
4.9.2025 – 27.9.2025

Opening Hours
Friday 4 – 8 pm, Saturday 2 – 6 pm and by appointment

Similar to a parallel thought that has not yet been expressed, the exhibition (Prototypes) negotiates five different artistic positions that reflect on a present determined by AI and the pursuit of identity in an abstract and at the same time very concrete way, largely evading the associated confessions. If we assume that the parallel thought is based on a kind of human- after-all principle, then it is characterised by a profound play on perception that challenges our senses and thus also our participation. In the dialogue between the individual positions, the exhibition invites us to view the respective creative process as the present in anticipation of what may later become memory.

Special thanks to: Braunsfelder Family Collection & Lo Brutto Stahl, Paris.

Lore Deutz is supported by Stadt Köln Kulturamt, Kunststiftung NRW.

 

https://loredeutz.de/download/pdf-list-of-works-floor-plan-text-prototypes-1-.pdf

https://loredeutz.de/14-prototypes.html

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“Perhaps this is the ultimate commodity on sale at the Megastore: the fantasy that class divisions are suspended.”

Hal Foster, Design and Crime and Other Diatribes (2002)

Built in 1886, the Café des Glaces—named for its numerous mirrors—is among the architectural masterpieces of the town of Tonnerre, in Burgundy. Adorned with moldings, high ceilings, and large windows in Belle Époque style, it successively served as a salon, ballroom, and hotel, remaining active until 2000. Fueled by the rise of consumer culture, the café as a social institution established itself as a space of sociability marked by relative social mixing, where a variety of drinks were consumed—notably that colonial commodity, once luxury and now widely democratized: coffee.

Today, the Café des Glaces stands as an faded symbol of the provincial middle class, a symbol of the decline of rural France. Thus, if “taste classifies and classifies the classifier,” it establishes a process of symbolic hierarchy among different social classes. Good taste emerges as the prerogative of women, especially in social spaces such as the Café des Glaces. As Penny Sparke explains in As Long as It’s Pink: The SexualPolitics of Taste, material ostentation through “accessories of distinction” positions consumer culture as both desirable and normative.

By occupying the ground floor—once the bar of the Café—the exhibition Realife 2 resonates with the site’s past and present uses. The luminous sculptures by Haydée Marin & Camille Besson reflect the gendered tensions of modernist design, navigating between calls to order and desires for emancipation. They share, with Gilles Jacot’s photo series Clone, a minimal, refined aesthetic. These photographs, made during a shoot for a Swiss jewelry brand—one of the artist’s “money jobs”—are partially obscured with Tipp-Ex and paper to anonymize the faces. Through this intervention, the artist highlights the hidden, informal economy behind artistic labor and exposes the unseen realities behind the desire for a sense of belonging.

This tension drives Anne Bourse’s creation of her “nuits corrompues” (“corrupted nights”), in which one sinks into the stereotypical imagery of a fantasized, aspirational party. Similarly, the paintings of Lorenza Longhi and her Corsage sculptures evoke a sense of aftermath—the moment after the guests have left, when only the remains of superficial opulence and ostentatious glamour linger. The decorative snails presented by A Maior—an exhibition program hosted within a home décor shop in Viseu, Portugal—are kitschy, mass produced goods: globalized commodities that homogenize consumer desires.

Beyond their bright appearance, Gina Folly adorns cardboard boxes—containers designed for thecirculation of goods, aimed at efficiency and optimization in a dematerialized, service-oriented economy—withpreserved flowers. The works are accompanied by quotes from an astrology application, offering mantrasmeant to ease daily life, emotional needs that are as alienating as they are profitable: « Abjection is bigbusiness in a culture in which you’re supposed to feel lousy about feeling lousy », as Rhonda Lieberman puts it.Meanwhile, Ethan Assouline’s bar-side sketches are placed on the Café’s large mirrors. They speak to imaginedforms of refusal—false promises of joy embedded in capitalist ideology, shaping both urban and rural life and their illusory charms.

Mathilde Cassan

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Why do we sometimes long for a colourful, sharply cut mohawk like a warrior, and sometimes curls like a princess? Do we do it to feel more like ourselves, or like someone else? We look at our own reflection and question: is it us, or our mirror masks created in our image?

 

During the summer holidays, Laura Fiľáková’s exhibition transformed Zaazrak|Dornych into a functional hair salon! On four different dates anybody could come to get their original summer hairstyle, with Laura Fiľáková and three guest hairdressers on special events, always accompanied by music programme and bar.

 

All events were beneficial and 50% of the hair salon earnings were used to support selected organizations or individuals including Resistance Support Club (medicals purchase for medics at Ukrainian battlefields), Kolektiv Papírenská (legal support for members of the recently evicted squat in Prague), Médecins Sans Frontières operating in Gaza so as our comrade and friend klorox whose dad died in a tragic accident this summer.

 

installation: Laura Fiľáková

concept: Laura Fiľáková, Šimon Kadlčák

hairdressers: Laura Fiľáková, Bára KRMNL, Aňa Volodymyrivna, Annynen

music performances: KōNcHi, klorox, Dj Dropper, greta spitfire, Lydia Brunch, Wojownik, WACLAV, dj euthanasia

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Words as a beginning and a catalyst. Gathering works of four artists whose language-based and -strewn practices at once belong to and resist the idea of representation through speech, the group exhibition Song of Flight is an exploration of the generative potential of language as material and form. As a whole, it forms a loose, fragmented collection of sounds, words, speech and noises which emerge throughout the gallery’s winding spaces – some of these grow in sonic intensity, others remain silent and introspective. Even if language can never fully let go of the hold of representation and its embeddedness within processes of signification, its mnemonic and affective impact is perhaps felt most in its material density; in the ways in which words become part of our embodied memory, again and again coming into focus. Often, it is not what is nameable or sayable that matters most, but what has settled, resists and thus goes unnoticed – that which achieves a certain density and stubbornness and in relation to which there is hardly any outside perspective that can be taken. 

Similarly, the works of Henri Chopin, Keta Gavasheli, Nour Mobarak and Angharad Williams come from a place of embeddedness within language, they act from within it and assume different material forms to engage with this space. At times, the works require a withdrawal from the clarity of speech to approximate the ambiguity and unfinishedness of their subject matter. With the artists drawing and sampling from various sources, words only rarely materialise as words in this exhibition, but are displaced and materially transformed – words become physical objects, images, noises, sounds. While the works may hold the residues of a self (at times they draw from personal experience), any assertion of subjecthood remains unstable, fragmented, and malleable.

Consider, for instance, the work of Henri Chopin (1922-2008), to whom the gallery Lombardi-Kargl dedicated a survey exhibition in 2019. After he escaped a forced labour camp during World War II, his sonic memories of these events would come to infuse and haunt his later work as an artist. In the 1950s, he started to work on a new form of electronic sound poetry in which he recorded the breath, compulsions and cries of his own voice and body, exploring the spoken word as a matter of energy and as a form capable of expressing existential weight. In Chopin’s act of decoupling language from the authoritative weight of speech (the word as truth), what can be felt is a sense of disquiet, a rupture, and a committed refusal to self-disclose. In his work, language is always in flux, changing in tonality and intensity.  

Keta Gavasheli’s multi-media practice likewise draws from a continued engagement with sound, poetry, and performance, often using strategies of collage to approximate the fragmented, opaque nature of memory and interior space. The video work Blurry Middle Distance (2025) for instance sketches a shifting poetic landscape of surfaces, textures, cityscapes, and a demonstration, which are only visible as a blur. As Gavasheli states at one point in the subtitle, it is perhaps wrong to assume that remembering equals owning what is lost, and so the video, while still trying to gather mnemonic fragments, is also a grappling with absence. Other works by Gavasheli containing cassette tape and cassettes act as material records of spoken and performed text by the artist. Language and words appear here only at a distance and as residue, buried, made inaccessible, and archived in another medium.  

Subliminal Lambada (2024), a sound piece by Nour Mobarak, follows the artist’s long-time enquiry into psychoacoustic phenomena, resting on material processes of sampling, collaging, and patterning of different sonic sources. As we move from childhood into older age, we relate differently to our sonic environment because our sound wave frequency audibility threshold narrows with age. Through varying intonations, Subliminal Lambada creates a hallucinatory soundscape in which words and sounds are more or less audible, distorted, filtered and underlaid with changing tones. These shifts in mood and audibility are sometimes grounding, and at others disorienting and confusing, exploring the shifting relationship with our sonic environment over time. Sounds, like words, become palpable as profoundly affective textures through which we relate not only to the exterior world, but also to ourselves and to a biographic timeline. Subliminal Lambada is accompanied by a new visual work which can only be seen with UV light, exploring our perception of different light wave frequencies. 

In Angharad Williams’ new suite of photographs, which are fragments of a longer stream of images from a recent solo exhibition, speech is deliberately made inaccessible. We can see the artist moving her lips to form a word, it is there and the artist delivers it, but is remains out of reach since we cannot hear her. The work’s lingering, latent presence creates a sense of unease in the room. Perhaps there is something to be said about the futility and helplessness of speech in this moment in time marked by ongoing wars and human suffering. Speech, usually an outward-turning and communicative act, is here turned inward, muted and displaced into the non-verbal. 

Song of Flight is not about closure or arrival, but about a departure. The flight, or flying, as a metaphor draws upon the instable nature of language whose form and meaning is subject to constant change.

– Kathrin Bentele

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Can is an exhibition space run by artists. Decisions concerning what is being shown are influenced by such common notions as solidarity, curiosity and formal appreciation—mostly the love of art.
The Artists Alone Decide was the title of American artist Bradley Kronz’ 2015 Mathew Gallery Berlin solo exhibition. It stuck with us and we never forgot about it. Kronz says: “In fact, I took it from the jazz/avant-garde record label ESP-Disk. All their releases have printed on the artwork: ‘The artists alone decide what you will hear on ESP-Disk.’” You can take this any way you want. Maybe the cynical reading is that of the artist’s primal bondage; the romantic one, a little more jester-like—which is probably why we’re still here—is that of the artist’s stubborn freedom. Recently, in a conversation with our friend and artist Andrew Green, we talked about a pair of words to describe the persistent tension between artist and audience: pretentious and cringe. The first is an attempt at intellectual or formal aloofness, a defense against perception or apprehension. The second aims at ingratiation. Both sound shit. Don’t think we think there’s any escape. Let us give you an example: at Can, we pretentiously refuse to have a door sign. However, because we want to be loved, we insist on serving free beer.

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Julian Irlinger’s third solo exhibition at Galerie Thomas Schulte, Sleepwalkers, presents an animated film alongside paper sculptures and graphic works.

The animation The Curtain of Time (2025) pans through an office interior where architects and urban planners are either sleepwalking or lying asleep at their desks. While no one is working inside, cranes outside move mechanically back and forth as part of an ongoing construction project—a cityscape suspended between repetition, reinvention, erasure and preservation. Models of modernist landmarks are replaced by timber-frame structures, reflecting the shift from postwar modernism toward historical reconstruction that has shaped German cities in recent decades.

The hypnotic, rhythmic movements of certain figures and objects seem to measure time in intangible ways: in breath, in water dripping from a cooler, smoke rising from a lit cigarette, or a projector’s flickering beam. In contrast to its visual order—drawing on mid-century animation aesthetics—the film’s soundscape forms a wandering, untamed acoustic layer that disrupts the cyclical progression.

The work–commissioned by Portikus, Frankfurt/Main–follows the format of traditional shorts that once preceded feature films in movie theaters. In contrast, the film is conceived as a seamless loop and employs the historical technique of cel animation, with individual frames hand-drawn onto transparent celluloid sheets, photographed, and compiled into sequences to create the illusion of movement.

Paper lanterns, like those crafted by children to carry through the streets on St. Martin’s Day, hold both festive and educational significance. Irlinger’s lanterns take the form of architectural models—timber-frame houses, social housing blocks, and modernist villas. Some display cut-outs reminiscent of mid-century modern design. Suspended and floating, the delicate black-paper structures are dimly lit and feature windows in red, blue, yellow, and green, transforming the space into an ethereal procession of light.

In some collages, shop windows display goods and services that appear as relics of a bygone era. In others, fragments of urban life are constructed in solid colours and bold shapes, exploring the tension between foreground and background. 

What persists throughout the exhibition is a phantom presence: the mid-century modern period as a lens through which to consider how cultural narratives are constructed and circulate in visual form, and how, over time, they are taken up as instruments of learning or belief.

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https://offseen.com/

offseen is a mobile app for Android and iOS that connects you to the world of contemporary art by showing current exhibitions across the globe.

We are creating an evolving map of artistic presence, and we invite artists, curators, media outlets, and cultural organizations to be part of this growing network.

With offseen, you can explore exhibitions, museums, and cultural events nearby or anywhere in the world through an intuitive and interactive map.

-view exhibitions in real time worldwide,
-access complete event details including dates, artists, curators, and venues,
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-filter results by date, artist, gallery, or location,
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If you are looking to increase visibility, reach new audiences, and expand your influence beyond digital channels, we would be glad to collaborate with you.

-feature exhibitions on the offseen map,
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Carreras Mugica is pleased to present “CONTRA EL OLVIDO. Homenajes y Ofrendas”, Ángel Bados’ second exhibition at the gallery. In it you will be able to see his latest works made with materials as diverse as cardboard, textile, bronze and various objects.
Ángel Bados (Olazagutia, 1945) studied Fine Arts at the Real Academia de San Fernando in Madrid, where he graduated in 1973, specialising in sculpture. In the mid 1970s he developed his artistic work in Pamplona in the field of conceptual art and installations.
From the beginning and throughout his professional career, he has combined his work as a sculptor with teaching art.
In 1983 he moved to Bilbao, where he became a lecturer in the Sculpture Department of the Faculty of Fine Arts at the University of the Basque Country. There he came into contact with a series of artists (Tx. Badiola, J. L. Moraza, P. Irazu, M. L. Fernández) with whom he shared a studio. From the proximity between them and the discussions they held on the art of the time, the group known as Nueva Escultura Vasca (New Basque Sculpture) emerged, which contributed to the renewal of Spanish art in the 1980s.

His attitude, reluctant to exhibitions, has led him to present his work on a few occasions and very distanced in time. His last solo show was in this same Carreras Mugica gallery in 2017. However, his work is present in important public and private collections such as: the Helga de Alvear Foundation, Cáceres; the ‘la Caixa’ Foundation, Barcelona; Museud’Art Contemporani de Barcelona, Barcelona; Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía, Madrid; Museo Patio Herreriano, Valladolid; Museo Bellas Artes de Bilbao, Bilbao; Artium, Centro-Museo Vasco de Arte Contemporáneo de Vitoria-Gasteiz; Museo San Telmo, Donostia/San Sebastián or in the Museo de Navarra, Pamplona.
His teaching activity includes numerous sculpture workshops in different institutions in Spain, most notably those held at Arteleku (1990, 1992, 1994, 1997), some of them co-directed with Txomin Badiola.
In 2008, the Jorge Oteiza Museum Foundation commissioned him to order the so-called Experimental Laboratory for subsequent exhibition at the Alzuza Museum. The result of this research is the book Oteiza. Experimental Laboratory. Laborategi Esperimentala, of which he is the author. In 2018 he was awarded the National Plastic Arts Prize.

The exhibition will be inaugurated with the presence of the artist on Friday 19 September at 18h.

“The works in the exhibition will begin around 2020 and 2021, once the ordering of the painting of my friend Isabel Baquedano has been completed. Whose memory, how she entrusted the painting to the vicissitudes of the very act of painting, has regulated the trance of taking up the task of sculpture again and doing it day by day without fear of making a mistake.
I feel that not much time has passed since then, perhaps because the pieces have needed to escape the vertiginous speed of world events, where things seem to come out of nowhere and return to nowhere without leaving any mark. And I would like to believe that, as we are determined to disrupt the significant masters of our adventures, and consequently orphaned from the narratives of totality, we will have to pay careful attention to the small ‘inventions’ that emerge, unexpected, pregnant with contingency, it is true, but guardians of what has no name, and in all probability guarantors of the freedom of what we do.

In this way, the tributes have offered me the figure of an addressee, ready to act as a representative of each of you when you look at the pieces, which is no small thing. Sometimes it’s about the person close to us who helps us to walk (Trampolín para la Niña Martina), but also about those who have been mercilessly touched by the fire of creation (Kirchner in Davos and R. Walser in Herisau). In the same direction, the titles promote the use of symbolic components by facilitating the representational function entrusted to art.  The role assigned to the offerings is not easy to illustrate, because, possibly, beneath such boldness, there is the sacrificial component of risking one’s sanity in the field of the largely unknown Other. I have always had a need to look at Arab art and culture. The most recent works border on another verse of Ar-Rusafi from Valencia ‘if they return we will come to greet them’ for a sort of sculptor’s offer (Litoral de Partida, Si el Mar pudiera hacerse de Jardines), to the citizens of other cultures when they risk the passage to our territory, more or less close, and all too often closed and inhospitable.

But before and after such arguments, the operation is ultimately about giving meaning to the work, under the invocation and commemoration of art and sculpture as always: Lespugue’s Venus next to Pablo Picasso’s Lady Offering; or Portrait of My Wife and You are Pedro (figurative or abstract depending on the subject, as Jorge Oteiza would say). In parallel, we could point out Brunelleschi’s Dome, looking technically at the sky of Florence; or the buildings of Alvar Aalto in Finland and the architecture of Álvaro Siza in Portugal, whose enjoyment and contemplation lead me to say that architecture, like sculpture, ‘weighs upwards’. It is not in vain that they share similar principles when it comes to configuring the spatio-temporal event that is proper to them, elucidated between the abstract condition of the formal structure and the unbearable physical quality of the material, which makes the work resolve itself definitively on the side of satisfaction. 

I offer you the quote of the titles, although, as you can see in the room, the sculptures tend to share them with each other”.
Bilbao. August 2025
A.B.

 

Trampolín para la Niña Martina                                                             For Both Sides of the Border (2017-2023)
Libanesa, for Marta I.                                                                                For Both Sides of the Border (2024-2025)
One and Three Landscapes, for my Friends                                         Litoral de Partida
the Basque Sculptors                                                                                 If the Sea could be Made of Gardens
For E. Kirchner in Davos:
Footbridge and Flow                                                                                 Plegaria
The Little Bonfire                                                                                       To an Unknown God
Untitled
The Platform

For R. Walser in Herisau:
                               When Mirages were Fountains
                               The Cloud and the Garden
                               Untitled

                               Escabel de Nieve, I y II

_____________________________________________
More information:
 
944234725

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Studio Visit
Julie Becker, Francesco De Bernardi, gora gora bookstore (Rafał Skoczek), Gilles Jacot, Morag Keil, Tamara Vepkhvadze
organized by Julia Künzi and Johanna Vieli

22 August – 9 September 2025
Opening August 21, 6–8 pm

A plain stairwell, a heavy entrance door, a worn-out wooden floor. The exhibition space BINZ39 is a patchwork of several small compartments within two larger rooms, scattered throughout with doors. They lead to artist studios, to the toilet (right-hand door directly behind the kitchen), to the storage room. The exhibition Studio Visit is not a studio visit. Most of the doors remain closed. In the exhibited works, the studio appears as a place of production, as community space, stage, scarce commodity, luxury, storage, draft, shop, and a place to rest.

The work Federal State Building with Music (2002) by Julie Becker (1972–2016) offers phantasmagoric insights into her private living and working situation in Los Angeles in the 2000s, and how this is entangled with precarious living realities and economic growth, the urban environment, local communities, and gentrification processes.

Starting from The Mustache (Emmanuel Carrère, 1986), a puzzling comedy revolving around the existence of this defining facial feature, Francesco De Bernardi (*1995) traces in Getting Attached to (A) is Difficult feelings such as uncertainty, doubt, and indecision—introspections that can shape the mood both in bed and in the studio.

Red Shelf (2025) by Rafal Skoczek (*1989) hosts the artists’ initiative gora gora bookstore (established 2020) for the duration of the exhibition. The work is a one-to-one replica of a structure from the formerly occupied Friedensgasse, advocating for the reclamation of empty spaces and the creation of collective infrastructure.

Morag Keil (*1985) shows us the art experience of PDFs and Instagram feeds: dematerialized, flattened, pixelated. The DIY posters document an exhibition she held last year in Paris, which itself was a reenactment of her fair presentation at FIAC in 2011.

The works of Gilles Jacot (*1990) explore the aesthetics and ideology of living space under gentrification and neoliberal conditions and use these as a basis for painterly and gestural expressions.

Tamara Vepkhvadze’s (*2003) compositions possess a life of their own. Traces and markings of a past existence are part of her expression. In a new configuration, they may carry the traces of Studio Visit within them.

The conditions of production and distribution are staged in the works and accentuated by the placeholder of the studio. These open doorways reveal parameters such as luck, class, networks, cliques, attitudes, and infrastructures.

The exhibition and gora gora bookstore are open during opening times and by appointment.

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Woke up yesterday morning and took a selfie. Wanted to figure out whether the human species still needs mirrors now that we stare, scrutinize, and dissect ourselves through a camera and then a screen. I saw myself, saw us, and in a second the whole world lost its mystery — tape over the front camera, and an immediate order for four mirrors. I’ll decide later where to hang them.

I called Maxime Bousquet, who’s curating the next group show at Sans titre, Le secret des secrets, on the theme of mirrors. I thought he surely must have felt the same unease I did at the idea of a world without reflection, without the ductile volume of a piece of glass staring back at us. We talked for about an hour, and he offered to send me the PDF of the works he selected. Careful scrolling.

Maxime’s reference — a wicker mirror by Lina Zervudaki — gave me a first clue. The object is a fragmentation of the medium, a multiplication. Stand still in front of it; it’s a frame with an image, you own an instant self-portrait, a liquid, fleeting painting. Walk past it quickly and suddenly you’re a director, frame by frame. Throw a stone at it, rip the mirror out of its context, scramble organized shapes into chaos, and you might just end up a writer.

One of the great specialists of mirrors, decorator Serge Roche, covered furniture and everyday objects with plaster and glass — one stopping the gaze, absorbing light; the other rejecting it, scattering it. Playing with this double motif, Roche highlighted the mirror’s power as an extractor of the everyday. Here, Julien Monnerie works in the same register of form and matter, sculpting a pumpkin whose curved silver surfaces reflect its grooves and transform the vegetable into a Perrault-style carriage. Hamish Pearch, on his side, manipulates surface, lets spheres press their weight onto a strange margarine wrapper. A hydrophobic paper answering a heliophilic mirror.

In his Orpheus, Jean Cocteau mused: “I’ll give you the secret of secrets. Mirrors are the doors through which Death comes and goes. Look at yourself in a mirror all your life… and you’ll see death at work like bees in a hive of glass.” The lights you catch in a mirror are like two visions receding into distance and into time, like twin echoes, until they fade out. Léonor Fini sharpened this idea: a woman stares into the hollow eye sockets of her own skeleton; a macabre fast-forward stripped down by the delicacy of an ink line suspended in air. I’ll let you know if, later, in my new mirrors, I glimpse death staring back at me.

Some mirrors deform, spitting back another reality, erecting a new world inside their frames. Dozie Kanu’s reminds me of that — its undulating edges and coma pointed tips. By texturing the aluminum frame with a chromed paint, Kanu also corrupts the smooth surface of its glass, bending in his turn the mirror itself. The flat surface of a clear water was probably the world’s first mirror; Narcissus drowned in it for long hours. Daniel Steegmann Mangrané shattered that still pond by cutting it with a laser, metamorphosing water into polished steel, yanking the young man out of his death.

I was rereading myself when my screen went to sleep, forcing on me a reflection that looked like my own face. I cranked up the brightness and returned to those works.

The concept of the unreliable narrator exists in literature. Wayne Clayton Booth describes it as a narrator “out of line with the values of the work.” The mirror drags that concept into pictorial art. A piece of glass that shows a reality outside the diegesis of the work allows the lie to interfere inside it. Like the mirror on the wall of the Arnolfini Portrait, Inès Kivimäki’s video lies to us, throws back altered images, and finishes to close the loop on the unease I mentioned earlier.

We need one last reflection in our living rooms full of night.

 

Pierre Chpakovski

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