Park McArthur.New location for this show!!! Keithstraße 5,10787 Berlin.

Lars Friedrich

Park McArthur

Passive Vibration Isolation

Geaorgie Netell invitation card
Georgie Nettell 2014

Georgie Nettell
Exhibition view 2014, 2014

Georgie Nettell 2014

Georgie Nettell
Exhibition view 2014, 2014

Georgie Nettell 2014

Georgie Nettell
Exhibition view 2014, 2014

Georgie Nettell 2014

Georgie Nettell
Exhibition view 2014, 2014

Georgie Nettell 2014

Georgie Nettell
2014.5., 2014
Digital print on canvas
35 x 55 cm

2014.6., 2014
Digital print on canvas
35 x 55 cm

Georgie Nettell 2014

Georgie Nettell
2014.7., 2014
Digital print on canvas
35 x 55 cm

Re-purposed domestic space provides the setting for a series of pro-urban abstractions, graffiti paintings produced as individuals from random crops of the same jpeg. These signatures betray an inner city identity, a minor crime transformed from low to high value. Processes of desaturation disguised as renewal condition us in turn, the inevitability of this system becoming an excuse that we tell each other as we reproduce it. Disobedience is relearnt as passivity, the utility of this accepted as a necessary process of socialisation.

Jutta Zimmermann

arrowhead

  • Eröffnung
  • 27.02.2014
  • 18–21 Uhr
  • Ausstellung
  • 28.02.– 04.05.2014
  • Fr/Sa 13–18 Uhr
Jutta Zimmermann 2014

Jutta Zimmermann
Exhibition view arrowhead, 2014

Jutta Zimmermann 2014

Jutta Zimmermann
Exhibition view arrowhead, 2014

Jutta Zimmermann 2014

Jutta Zimmermann
Exhibition view arrowhead, 2014

Jutta Zimmermann 2014

Jutta Zimmermann
Untitled, 2014
ball pen on acid-free paper, passe-partout, plexiglass, plasterboard
43 x 43 cm

Jutta Zimmermann 2014

Jutta Zimmermann
Untitled, 2014
ball pen on acid-free paper
43 x 43 cm

Jutta Zimmermann 2014

Jutta Zimmermann
Untitled, 2014
ball pen on acid-free paper
43 x 43 cm

Jutta Zimmermann 2014

Jutta Zimmermann
Exhibition view arrowhead, 2014

Jutta Zimmermann 2014

Jutta Zimmermann
Untitled, 2014
clay
ca. 16 x 6 x 5 cm

Jutta Zimmermann 2014

Jutta Zimmermann
Untitled, 2013
spruce, plywood
200 x 12 x 3 cm

anicka yi invitation card
Anicka Yi 2013

Anicka Yi
Exhibition view DENIAL, 2013

Anicka Yi 2013

Anicka Yi
It Only Takes 20 Minutes To Shift The Blame, 2013
Chrome sphere, glycerin soap, resin, nylon string, acrylic paint, vinyl tubing, steel handle, brass handle, acrylic rod, brass ring, limestone
40 x 42 x 24 cm / 15.7 x 16.5 x 9.4 inches

Anicka Yi 2013

Anicka Yi
The Question Is Would You Recognize My Face Tomorrow, 2013
Two way mirror, resin, glycerin soap, sponge, vinyl tubing, acrylic paint, steel rings, grapefruit peel, plastic foot massager
33 x 33 x 23 cm / 12.9 x 12.9 x 9 inches

Anicka Yi 2013

Anicka Yi
The Easy Way to Quit New York, 2013
Plexi glass, stainless steel shower handle, vinyl tubing, glycerin soap, resin, petri dish, paper, wax, fish oil capsule
30x22 x20 cm / 11.8x8.6x7.8 inches

Anicka Yi 2013

Anicka Yi
Mimetic Peanuts, 2013
Dog food
15 x 15 x 45 cm / 5.9 x 5.9 x 17.7 inches

Anicka Yi 2013

Anicka Yi
Tyrannical Eating, 2013
Honey, CD
22 x 10 cm / 8.6 x 3.9 inches

Anicka Yi 2013

Anicka Yi
Forensics & Cryonics (What I Would Like To Be If I Wasn't What I Am, ussue #2), 2013
Ice, glass beads, freezer, privacy film
50 x 43 x 48 cm / 19.6 x 16.9 x 18.9 inches

*Sculptural collaboration with Mari Ouchi@Faux/Real

How are new senses generated? One has the sense that there is some impossible, ungraspable truth embedded in separation. One feels it in closing one’s eyes, blocking out one sense. An image that only comes at night—with eyes closed; a scented expression. Here, we already give the image over to data. The image is only information, the encoding of a present absence. Where presence can only refer to time, where are you now?

Not here anymore. This is a partial truth, a word, a fragment of my understanding, my sense of things. In an "any more," time and place move inside an undifferentiated comparison; the binding of two elements — "any" thing, as in no thing in particular, and "more" of that no thing, as in "no more." Discovering your absence by a process of elimination. Even if I were to peel away the layers of visual information to try to locate the mystery, I would find some image that cancelled out or replaced, that spoke in contradiction of the truth embedded there.

This is not a way of reaching you. How can I speak to you from this place of separation? If I make us speak together in this place, using your words from a time beyond where you are now, what voice have I produced? Whose memory? Is this getting us outside memory? Memory from the outside? Or is it an outstripping of memory—robbing its grave—stealing, stolen memory? If a brain is frozen and put into another body, do we really expect it to do the same things it did before it was frozen?

Life subversion means tunneling through those things that control one's emotions, one's ability to function, one's well-being—building an underground, allowing a form of resistance to build. Becoming a resistant object. Freezing oneself in place to move somewhere else, to melt on the floor. Over-heated desire, pathetic memory; I'm getting all wet in public; my emotion is hanging out everywhere. At a certain point, the trailing of tears is orgasmic, at another, it is a malady pure and simple. Tears steal the senses away from the visual; over-code them with memory.
A state change between these two points. The frozen block melts. There is no you inside you anymore.

A koan:
"What became of us?" / "Do we need couples therapy?"
"An Hermès keychain." / "No, we are couples therapy."

There are two fundamental ways of living in denial: living in denial of a truth one refuses to accept, on the one hand; living with being denied the things one wants or needs, on the other.

To deny, repudiate, withhold. Already, denial sounds itself within a court of law. Let the proceedings begin. One denies the evidence; to look at the material and to reject it or to become rejected material. One denies the evidence of what one is denied in order to keep living.

Koan: from Japanese ko meaning "public" + an meaning "a matter for thought."

The word derives from the Chinese word gong'an, a "public case"—a compound word of the characters 公 "public; official; governmental; common; collective; fair; equitable" and 案"table; desk; (law) case; record; file; plan; proposal."

The case becomes an object: a table, a desk, the thing on which the law rests; a file, the thing in which it's contained.

A koan is a truth that withholds itself; one that is given publicly; a truth in denial of its object. The koan is usually a story told by a wise teacher, which is meant to provoke "great doubt;" something which one must meditate on in order to free oneself from its mystery. The koan becomes an object which one can't get rid of. Zen Master Wumen once said, "It is like swallowing a red-hot iron ball. You try to vomit it out, but you can't."

When applied to oneself—the law one applies to oneself—the word either regulates the truth or desire. To be in denial, refusing to face the facts, or to deny oneself of what one desires. To believe that one has taken possession of oneself in denying what one desires. Living in one form of denial so as not to live in the other. Denial is a form of dispossession.

In order to confront denial, one must look at the evidence. One turns to the forensics of desire—where did I begin to want this, have I been foolish to keep on wanting it, at what point did I realize I was never going to have it, this nearly was mine, what was it?

Guess whose it is? Guess whose it is? /
Guess whose it is? Guess whose it is? /
Yours

Objects live in denial. In the same way we must live with our being denied those objects, objects deny us; they object to our possessing them, turn against the spirit we've invested in them, deteriorate, break down, scream. Objects change state, get dirty, fall apart, make sounds and then stop.

In theory, objects shouldn't have the power of denial, to be able to speak, to deny, to refuse, to withhold. Especially those objects we possess and, before that, those objects we've created. Most of all, an object is possessed by the fact of its existence; how can it begin to object to itself as a fact, to be in denial of its own movement toward death?

And yet, objects speak for themselves.

An object in denial in the psychological sense—that is, one that refuses to accept the fact of its eventual deterioration—operates by an information-theoretic definition of death. This concept was invented by a group of people who believe that the things we ordinarily associate with death (loss of brain function, the moment when the heart no longer beats) are only "legal death". Death itself is not theoretically necessary. For these people, the future of death is in cryonics. On an ethical and philosophical level, cryonics rejects the fact of death, suggesting instead that death only occurs when one's "memories, personality, hopes, and dreams have been destroyed."
-"Molecular Repair of the Brain," Ralph Merkle, writing in Cryonics magazine, 1994.

Two sciences of separation: forensics and cryonics.

An object in denial can be cryogenically preserved—vitrified, turned into glass—the process by which the memory or the body hardens into the same substance as a screen or a mirror. Death is defined as the loss of memory, when the person's memory can no longer be retrieved. Even if it appears to be gone, sometimes things come back. As long as the person or thing still has its memories. There's still hope.

What becomes of an object no one will remember in five years? Is it dead? (If I don't remember it, who will? Is that how I possess it?) How does one extend the life of an object through memory?

One of the first members of the cryonics movement called himself FM2030 and wrote a book called Are You a Transhuman? He proudly diagnosed his condition, saying, "I have a deep nostalgia for the future." FM2030 gave himself his new name from a contempt at the binding between a person’s name and their past and his personal prediction that he would celebrate his 100th birthday in the year 2030, the year by which he believed people will have stopped aging. FM2030 legally died in the year 2000, and his body still awaits the celebration he left the world to come back for. His corpse was vitrified and is currently held in cryonic suspension.

A familiar form of denial is that of the one who leaves with the intention of coming back. Denial can be a way of leaving a trace, a way of getting back home. But one can equally be in denial of where one is headed, in denial of our futures. Futures, taken in an economic sense, means we part ways with the intention of fulfilling our contractual obligations: a price we agree on today, which we will pay out at a later date. The law of us becomes one of diminishing returns.

Perhaps things have a second life. One can accept the things that come after what one wanted at first, knowing that the new things will take one ever farther away from the thing one first desired, only in the hope that one day the first thing will be yours.

Did you know that the word loan originally meant “to leave?”

One tells oneself, I'll work for now, until I no longer feel this pain. We'll spend some time apart, work on ourselves, and then come back to what was really important to us. In the work, time contracts; pain becomes porous, oozes out of every surface—cellular, microbial, diffuse. Then, the memory becomes osmotic, and things that came in one way go out another; different membranes.

At what point does sensing become senescent? When do the cells of memory deteriorate, not because of any cancer or virus but because of age itself? The fact of deterioration. When do futures become liquidated?

Can we store our memories cryonically? And is it necessary to freeze them? Even after we think they're gone, they can still fill a room like a musk, like a mask.

What of the miscegenated memory? His and hers. Blending like two skin tones touching, changing one another's chemicals, like two scents that fill a room not becoming one smell but their two different smells and the third that their being together apart makes.

FM2030’s saying reveals the truth of the transhumanist’s nostalgia for the future—the future freezing itself in the past. Like a frozen computer screen. What appears to be the new, to even be a process of renewal, is, after time passes, the glassy surface of the old man's skin, frozen.

The transhumanist's vision of the future poses a question of space and of substance. How will there be room for new people if all the old ones are preserved? What happens to the bodies of the new people who must take care of these old bodies, these vessels of memory? Where do new memories, people, objects go? Will the future only consist of the highly paid, the already preserved, and the formerly expired?

The same questions could be posed about ideas, about zeitgeists, about love. How will there be room for the new if we keep preserving a nostalgia for the future?

This is where forensics comes in. One must be ruthless in taking apart the corpse after it has been preserved. Allowing the rot to set in is a way of observing the process. It remains a question of senses.

The cryogenic mode is a way of preserving a preexisting set of perceptions, ways of seeing. It operates through a regime of images, a vision of the future. Within an optic regime, physiology becomes a trick of the eye, a mind-body problem; a vitrified brain in a glass jar; perceiving through a layer of glass; seeing the future in a screen.

Rather than asking how to prevent the loss of our memories, how can we turn to loss as a mnemonic device? Is loss a way of remembering our bodies?

The evidence has been laid out on the table. On the hand, an additive mode of production and remembrance—3D printing, cryogenic preservation—the body as a code which can be endlessly reprinted, preserved and destroyed in equal measures. On the other hand is a subtractive mode— allowing things to melt, letting the singularity of an object reveal itself by pouring out; accepting death as part of the equation, as the only thing proper to each of us; remembering the event, the one chance.

Forensics is a vascular science, digging into veins. The keychain hangs from the scalpel. The instrument holds a different kind of memory than the object that is preserved, nostalgic, frozen; the forensic objects becomes, rather, a language, a sentencing, a law of leakage. The instrument is a horn. Something comes out of it in the same place where it appears to disappear.

Now, we speak together, you silently, the object becomes a memorial. It will deteriorate, like us, over a long time. We ask,

What is the sound of one hand clapping?

Anicka Yi and Jordan Lord
November, 2013

Nic Guagnini

Heads

  • Eröffnung
  • 18.09.2013
  • 18–21 Uhr
  • Ausstellung
  • 20.09.– 26.10.2013
  • Fr/Sa 13–18 Uhr
Nic Guagnini 2013 Nic Guagnini 2013 Nic Guagnini 2013 Nic Guagnini 2013

Nic Guagnini
Hard of Hearing, 2012
Ceramic on pedestal
9.4 x 6.3 x 6.3 inches / 24 x 16 x 16 cm (ceramic), 57.1 x 17.7 x 17.7 inches / 145 x 45 x 45 cm (pedestal)

Heads, 2013
digital print
18.1 x 13.4 inches / 46 x 34 cm

Nic Guagnini Some Notes On Dickface

Sam Pulitzer, Nine scarlet eclipses for them

Sam Pulitzer

Nine scarlet eclipses for ‚them‘

  • Eröffnung
  • 27.06.2013
  • 18–21 Uhr
  • Ausstellung
  • 28.06.–27.07.2013
  • Fr/Sa 13–18 Uhr

THE TROJANS

1 E 70th St New York, NY 10021
For inquiries call: +001 913 669 9735

EPISODE 2: MESSIDOR (June 20 – July 20)

Sometimes there is an atrium. This is one of those times.

For two months, any sight of fine art drew a constant tide of blood up from Sinon's uncapped tongue, caking his cheeks and chin in thick rivulets. Cass could still feel its removed point lodged behind the admission pin that covered her cervix, an interior clit under a Goldilocks-red metallic hood. For two months they wandered the galleries, Cass’s left hand trailing the walls, tracing a hoped-for systematic exhaustion of spatial possibility while her right pressed fistfuls of her own blond ringlets into Sinon's mouth whenever a mannerist bronze nymph perched flamingo-style on the head of a carp or the peekaboo buttocks of a Boucher odalisque made his tongue melt again like a lipstick left out on a terrace café table in a hot afternoon in July.

From Germinal to Messidor, leaving a shoulder-high coma through the white enclosures of the eastern portico gallery, with its rank of Sixth Empire antique payphones, their blue plastic handsets hanging off-hook and swinging with the slight atmospheric ripple of Cass’s passage, and through the eastern propylaea, banding the white columns with red, they wandered farther into the interior, into galleries whose panels were covered by moss shrouds, where roving prides of dedomesticated Kleener Kats ran rough tongues over the toes of Canova casts. The videodocents, where they appeared at all, announced imminent closure for re-Occupation through beards of static before disappearing into the union shoes they project from.

Along the walls into galleries where their trail seems to have preceded them, Cass’s hand follows already-dried red ridges. “Do you remember there ever having been floral-print carpet in here?”

“Cass,” Sinon bubbles wetly, “we need a Plan B.”

But sometimes there is an atrium. And this, in all probability, is one of those times.

On the other side of the marble basin at its center, a mannerist bronze nymph perched flamingo-style on the head of a carp’s left arm obliquely crosses her body to indicate a water fountain on the wall beside her. Cass holds the push-bar and turns to Sinon as if holding a door open, following him with solicitous eyes as he leans into the stream. Close to the source, he thought, as the water hit his lips with a greater force and cooler than usual for a public institution. Definitely fluoridated, he thought, the water mixing with the caked blood to form a loose and silty clay, as the weight of a hand came to rest lightly on his nape.

“You look like you’re in need of Restoration. Which is only natural. This is the Restoration Wing.” Cass brushes the pink curls back from her eyes to look up into the face of the Occupant. On either shoulder a Kleener Kat sits, licking the straight, shoulder-length hair of the smaller woman to an inky sheen. Her hand tightens slightly on Sinon’s neck as the water fills his mouth, gagging him when he can’t continue swallowing. “Keep drinking. Adequate hydration is extremely important.”

With a liquid grace, the Kats dismount on telepathic command. The first hops onto the flat of Sinon’s inclined back and nips a whole through his shirt. Its standard-feature hydrochloric acid glands drip corrosive saliva onto its tongue, run in a tight circle near Sinon’s spine. “The restoration of art is not merely an occupation; it too is an art. Artworks are like eggs that never become chickens, or chickens refolded in their eggs: they should resist, or even oppose, development.” The second nuzzles up between Cass’s legs, its extensible tongue finding the flush metal rim of the pin as Cass mews and the trapped tip of Sinon’s tongue grows rigid as she does.

The first sits up at attention, its task complete: a perfectly round hole, exactly an inch in diameter, through Sinon’s back and into his chest cavity. “Take these Kats, for instance. They are not only restorers of artworks, which is their occupation, they are themselves, in their conception, works of art.” The first fits a round one-inch wide plastic plug into the new hole. The second uses its tongue to lift the pin inside Cass horizontal like a miniature doggy door, slipping the tongue past it to touch the tip of it to Sinon’s. “Which is why when I designed them, which is my occupation, incidentally, or part of it, I designed them to hatch from eggs.”

On telepathic command, the first squats and pushes out a chalky, rough-skinned egg, a demisphere topped by the convoluted peak of a hermit crab. “Like this,” she says, palming it inside the back of Sinon’s pants to press the fresh egg against his anus. The second she does this, Sinon, still swallowing, is hard.

She presses on: “Now, the nature of the research that informs our current artistic inquiry is just this.” Cass’s Kleener Kat turns its head from Cass’s cleaner cunt. “Whether it is the heat or the pressure that makes it hatch.” The first arches its back toward the second, the tip of Sinon’s tongue between its teeth.

In response to the faint ping of a humidity register concealed in the mouth of a conch in the nymph’s outstretched right hand, the translucent disc of the new gauge in Sinon’s back began to glow a pale pink.

(J. Nagy, 2013)

Sam Pulitzer 2013 Sam Pulitzer 2013 Sam Pulitzer 2013 Sam Pulitzer 2013 Sam Pulitzer 2013 Sam Pulitzer 2013 Sam Pulitzer 2013

Sam Pulitzer
Nine Scarlet Eclipses for "Them", 2013
3 Bosch-brand 3-point self-leveling lasers with custom vinyl detailing, 3 second-hand tripods, 9 plastic ear gauges with rubber "o" rings, second-hand security mirror, xeroxed drawing + text (10.9 x 16.5 inch), self-adhesive vinyl (Diameter: 18.1 inch), plastic foil, red latex paint (Sikkens C4.60.40)

Nolan Simon

Paintings for School

  • Eröffnung
  • 25.04.2013
  • 18–21 Uhr
  • Ausstellung
  • 26.04.–08.06.2013
  • Fr/Sa 13–18 Uhr

To clarify, what I meant was something like, Paintings for Places for Learning, but that could be anywhere, really, and Paintings for Anywhere sounds indecisive. School is more contentious than learning - public school, private school, boarding school, homeschooling, schools of thought and political action, business and trade schools ... schools are about selection. 

Last time I didn’t have time to talk about school. At the time, I talked about paintings hanging on walls, or not hanging on walls. This show will be 12 or 13 paintings, all which will hang on the wall. I recently finished a painting of a woman’s face. She’s biting into an orange slice. It’s supposed to look like she has two mouths. Actually, a lot of these paintings happen twice - deer deer, smile smile, peach peach peach peach, nipple nipple, painting this painting in that painting. My friend says they have more to do with sublimation and repression than school - that they’re hiding perverted content. But, where are people more perverted than in school?

I guess they could kinda go anywhere. My paintings, I mean. They’re small.

Last summer I went to the Goetheanum in Dornach with some friends. It’s this huge concrete school Rudolf Steiner designed and built in the 20s. There’s a theater in the center where children perform anthroposophical plays that spell out sentences and last hours. The ceiling looks like it was painted by Jutta Koether and Marc Chagall.

On the way back to the village, there’s a bulletin board that says, “Freie Waldorf Kinder” with pictures of their young students. It reminded me of a Steven Wright joke, “I went to the cinema, and the prices were: Adults $5.00, children $2.50. So I said, 'Give me two boys and a girl.'“

I don’t particularly think these paintings have much to do with Waldorf or Steiner or Dornach, but they may have more to do with sublimation and repression, like my friend said, and they’re definitely about selection.

Nolan Simon 2013 Nolan Simon 2013 Nolan Simon 2013

Nolan Simon
Paintings for School
Exhibition views, 2013

Nolan Simon 2013

Nolan Simon
Anne, 1 to 1, or You’re in or you’re out, and even if you’re in you might be out
30 x 20 in / 76.2 x 50.8 cm
oil on canvas, 2013

Nolan Simon 2013

Nolan Simon
Orange Slice Painting or My Face When you dig down one more layer and it’s all about a deeper sort of antagonistic respect for people
19 x 24 in / 48.3 x 61 cm
oil on canvas, 2013

Nolan Simon 2013

Nolan Simon
The Balcony or My Face When this isn’t some kind of metaphor
40 x 30 in/ 101.6 x 76.2 cm
oil on canvas, 2012

Nolan Simon 2013

Nolan Simon
Studio with Phillip Birch’s ‘Bread Sculpture’, 2012 (alluding to Paul Thek’s ‘Bread and Buttocks’, 1980)
10 x 13 in / 25.4 x 33 cm
oil on canvas, 2013

Nolan Simon 2013

Nolan Simon
Basket of Peaches
9 x 12 in/ 22.9 x 30.5 cm
oil on canvas, 2013

Nolan Simon 2013

Nolan Simon
Peach or Doll
9 x 7 in/ 22.9 x 17.8 cm
oil on canvas, 2013

Anita Leisz

  • Eröffnung
  • 15.03.2013
  • 18–21 Uhr
  • Ausstellung
  • 16.03. – 20.04.2013
  • Fr/Sa 13–18 Uhr
Anita Leisz 2013

Anita Leisz, 2013
Grundierspanplatte/laminated chipboard priming foil
83 x 73 x 8,2 cm

Anita Leisz, 2013
Grundierspanplatte/laminated chipboard priming foil
45 x 73 cm

Anita Leisz 2013

Anita Leisz, 2013
Grundierspanplatte/laminated chipboard priming foil
185 x 73 x 11 cm

Anita Leisz 2013

Anita Leisz, 2013
Grundierspanplatte/laminated chipboard priming foil
195 x 73 x 11 cm

Anita Leisz, 2013
Grundierspanplatte/laminated chipboard priming foil
58,5 x 73,5 cm

Georgia Sagri

  • Screening: CHoROS, 2013 & DOG, 2013
  • 10.03.2013
  • 17 Uhr
Georgia Sagri Dog

Georgia Sagri Choros

Alexander Hempel

  • Performance
  • 07.12.2012
    08.12.2012
  • 20 Uhr
    20 Uhr
  • Ausstellung
  • 14.12.2012 – 19.01.2013
  • Fr/Sa 13–18 Uhr
ALexander Hempel Performance

kalender

Lakela Brown Park McArthur Inka Meissner

  • Eröffnung
  • 04.10.2012
  • 18–21 Uhr
  • Ausstellung
  • 05.10.– 10.11.2012
  • Fr/Sa 13–18 Uhr
LaKela Brown 2012

LaKela Brown
Guess Which Finger?
Plaster, acrylic, and wood
2012

LaKela Brown 2012

LaKela Brown
Cake
Paper and glue 2012

Park McArthur 2011

Park McArthur
a soft limp key
Video, 16:45 min 2011

Park McArthur 2011

Park McArthur
a soft limp key
Video, 16:45 min 2011

Inka Meißner 2012

Inka Meißner
the couch
Imprint of an etching
2012

Inka Meißner 2012

Inka Meißner
the couch (with colours)
Imprint of an etching
2012

  • Eröffnung
  • 13.07.2012
  • 18–21 Uhr
  • Ausstellung
  • 14.07. – 22.09.2012
  • Fr/Sa 13–18 Uhr
Mathieu Malouf 2012 Mathieu Malouf 2012

Département des Projets, 2012
taxidermied turtle (temporarily missing), pvc, mold
45.5 x 76 x 47 cm

Mathieu Malouf 2012

Social Networking in front of an Albert Speer lamp in occupied Paris in 1942, 2012
oil, shitake mushrooms, electronics and epoxy resin on canvas
40 x 50 cm

Mathieu Malouf 2012

THE GRIM ONE, FARMER’S MARKET, 2012
synthetic spiderwebs, shitake mushrooms, electronics, polymer latex and inkjet decals on linen
40 x 50 cm

Mathieu Malouf 2012

When I hit the Cold Salad Bar, I am Possessed by SATAN, 2012
felt pen, woodstain, epoxy resin and inkjet decals on linen
61 x 76 cm

Nicola Brunnhuber

  • Eröffnung
  • 05.06.2012
  • 18–21 Uhr
  • Ausstellung
  • 08.06.– 07.07.2012
  • Fr/Sa 13–18 Uhr
Brunnhuber 2012 Brunnhuber 2012 Brunnhuber 2012

untitled, 2012

Brunnhuber 2012

untitled, 2012

Brunnhuber 2012

untitled, 2012

Peter Wächtler

Das Kino im Alten Mühlenviertel

  • Eröffnung
  • 28.04.2012
  • 14–17 Uhr
  • Ausstellung
  • 29.04.– 02.06.2012
  • Fr/Sa 13–18 Uhr
Wächtler 2012 Wächtler 2012 Wächtler 2012

untitled 1, 2012
detail

Wächtler 2012

untitled 3, 2012
detail

Wächtler 2012

untitled 2, 2012
detail

Wächtler 2012

untitled 2, 2012
detail

Wächtler 2012

untitled 3, 2012
ceramic, glas plinth
117 x 43 x 26 cm
unique

Wächtler 2012

untitled, 2012
print on self-adhesive windows vinyl
417 x 209 cm

Press release

“The Cinema in the Old Mill Quarter“

The reliefs of the three clay objects depict sceneries taken from in between everyday life, labor and nightmarish scenes:

The classroom of an evening school, a brawl, two urban lumberjacks cutting a tree down whose upper end turns into a chimney, a man packing a van, a couple walking through the city. The characters hole-like mouths are open and through them, via wireless speakers within the sculptures, one can hear a looping playlist of songs and sounds. The claim to end slavery of the traditional gospel “ God down Moses” is followed by the slightly tacky Karaoke version of U2’s “With or Without You.” In between the four songs there are different sounds played, such as the one of ships tied in the harbor or the one of a broken inkjet printer trying to fulfill its task. Songs and sounds are loosely programed and do not follow a straight rhythm.

The windows are covered with a see through foil used for advertising on trams and facades. The prints show three details of a historical portrait of Geronimo, Chief of the Apache Indians overwritten with European handwriting of the 18th century. You would find this graphical combination of fake cultural and political patina in museums for ethnology, literature archives or on Starbucks menu cards.

These foils give a back ground design for the three clay objects and their fake historical context overlaps with the melancholic title of the show “Das Kino im Alten Mühlenviertel” (“The Cinema in the Old Mill Quarter”). This cinema could relate to a provincial meeting point for early appointments with alternative culture, artistic quality, anti-capitalistic values, deviation and ideas of unconditioned love. The soundtrack of disappointment, failure, abuse through institutions and power games, the list of good and half-good contributions by you and your friends gets endlessly long. The prophecies of the Bad-Day Blues Songs turn themselves into provincial green sceneries freed from any empathy, whose characters crave for intensity and change, on their own and or other people’s costs.

“Das Kino im Alten Mühlenviertel“

Die drei Tonskulpturen zeigen Reliefdarstellungen zwischen Arbeit und Alltag: das Klassenzimmer einer Abendschule, eine Schlägerei, zwei Waldarbeiter, die einen Baum zersägen, dessen oberes Ende zu einem Schornstein wird, ein Mann der einen Umzugswagen bepackt, ein Paar, das durch die Stadt geht. Die lochartigen Münder der Figuren stehen offen und aus ihnen klingt über die kabellosen Lautsprecher in den Objekten eine playlist von nachgesungenen Songs und Geräuschen. Die Forderung nach dem Ende der Sklaverei unter Androhung von Gewalt im „Go down Moses“ Gospels folgt auf U2s hingehauchtes „With or Without you“. Zwischen den insgesamt vier Songs erklingen Soundfiles, wie das eines kaputten Inkjet Druckers, oder das von im Hafen liegenden und knarzenden Schiffen. Die Abfolge von Geräuschen und Songs ist lose, es gibt keinen festen Rhythmus oder Pausen.

Die Fenster sind mit einer Werbefolie verhängt, wie sie auch zum Bekleben von Fassaden oder Straßenbahnen benutzt wird. Die drei Folien zeigen unterschiedliche Details einer historischen Fotografie des Indianerhäuptlings Geronimo, überschrieben mit einer geschwungenen Handschrift aus dem 18. Jahrhundert. Die triviale politische und kulturelle Patina erinnert an graphische Formate von Museumspädagogik in Institutionen wie etwa dem Humboldtforum, Literaturhäusern oder der Speisekartengestaltung im Starbucks.

Der historische Kontext, der für die drei Tonboxen durch dieses Hintergrunddesign entsteht, überschneidet sich mit dem Ausstellungstitel, der an das „Kino im Alten Mühlenviertel“ erinnert, ebenfalls ein fiktiver Treffpunkt innerhalb einer alternativen, umgenutzten Infrastruktur einer Kleinstadt, wo man sich mit Begriffen von künstlerischer Qualität, Kritik am Kapitalismus, Marktverweigerung und Liebe, die sich nicht verbiegen musste, verabredete. Der Track der Enttäuschung, der Instrumentalisierung, der Institutionalisierung, die Liste gut oder halbguter Beiträge deiner Freunde wird immer länger. Die sehnsuchtsvollen Bad-Day-Blueswelten der Weltkneipen erfüllen und verdichten sich selbst zu provinziellen, empathielosen Szenarien, deren Charaktere nach Intensität und Veränderbarkeit gieren, auf Kosten anderer oder von sich selbst.

Hans Friedrich Lissmann

Weath

  • Eröffnung
  • 09.03.2012
  • 18–21 Uhr
  • Ausstellung
  • 10.03.– 07.04.2012
  • Fr/Sa 13–18 Uhr
Lissmann 2011 Lissmann 2011 Lissmann 2011 Lissmann 2011

untitled, 2012
silver gelatin print mounted on floatglas
200 x 100 x 0,8 cm
unique

Lissmann 2011

untitled, 2012
silver gelatin print mounted on floatglas
200 x 100 x 0,8 cm
unique

Lissmann 2011

untitled, 2012
silver gelatin print mounted on floatglas
200 x 100 x 0,8 cm
unique

Lissmann 2011

untitled, 2012
silver gelatin print mounted on floatglas
200 x 100 x 0,8 cm
unique

Lissmann 2011

untitled, 2012
silver gelatin print mounted on floatglas
200 x 100 x 0,8 cm
unique

Lissmann 2011
Lissmann 2011

untitled, 2012
copper foil and copper, processed by vinegar essence
210 x 10 x 5 cm
Unique

Weath is the profile name of one amateur model who wasn't able to join my project because of several other things he had to do. On the phone he told me that it really would not work as he just could not find the time it needs for a serious shooting. He told me again that he could not meet me, but if he could he would pose as an antique statue. I think maybe the models have a lot of problems at work or at home and they told me nothing funny happens and that it feels that only the others, in the streets or in the park, are in a good mood and that the main problem is to find a lasting work and life balance. Also relationships are not easy and often difficult to keep up.
 I asked the models I met to re-do the gestures and mimical expressions they are offering on their profile within the category of thoughtful.

I know a man. He is very old and lays in bed in his small appartment the whole day long. But when he was younger he painted all the ruined houses in the city. He also lived in an old ruined house, but a bit out of the city. He had no family or friends and that feels ok to him. His neighbours were a bit worried about his solitaristic behaviour. Throughout the years, some cats visited him because he let them in and gave them food. After dinner, as they were relaxing, he drew them and later he made small white clay-models of them. When I visit him now in his small appartment, I see those cats sitting on a small bookshelf close to the entrance. When I'm with him, we talk a bit. But he only has energy for a few minutes. He is very interested in animals. The last thing he told me was that wolves express with their eyes much more than dogs. House dogs have forgotten everything. But some time ago he had seen pictures of stray dogs in Andalusia, which were stray dogs for several generations. Those dogs had a very special gaze.

The work was generously produced by
the Etablissement d'en face, Brussels in April 2011.
Thank you!

Georgia Sagri

  • Performance
  • 12.01.2012
  • 18–21 Uhr
  • 13.01.2012
  • 18–21 Uhr
Georgia Sagri 2011 Georgia Sagri 2011 Georgia Sagri 2011 Georgia Sagri 2011 Georgia Sagri 2011 Georgia Sagri 2011 Georgia Sagri 2011
Georgia Sagri 2011 Georgia Sagri 2011 Georgia Sagri 2011 Georgia Sagri 2011 Georgia Sagri 2011 Georgia Sagri 2011 Georgia Sagri 2011 Georgia Sagri 2011 Georgia Sagri 2011 Georgia Sagri 2011 Georgia Sagri 2011
cest kroull

The boy
smelled shit
and pulled
over.

The dog was
cold, passing
by. He was
hanging out
the window.

She thought
everything
would get
ruined but she
was wrong.

In fact it was
cleaner, crisp
and windy.
Time was just
enough.

She left the
key under the
rock. She
pulled the
door and
looked up.

The boy gazed
at her. “hi”

“hi”

cest kroull

Are you a
visitor? The
speaker at the
end of the
corridor.

Two doors
ahead of a
water
fountain,

a corner with
an interior
plant, seven
years there.

On the left
some
information,
straight ahead
a window.

More
description:
four chairs,
one desk,
papers inside
the can.

Leathering
(something
with skin) on
the floor.

cest kroull

It is morning,
impossible
perfumes in
the air. A
gigantic rock.

A golden rock
is rolling down
the mountain.
Expecting
steam
in the forests.

Warm
illusions,
Paralyzed
mosquitoes,
hairy leaves,
waxed trees.

crawling
barks,
retirement
bungalows are
shut down.

Ants are
carrying a
bunch of
seeds out of a
hole. The bird
is out.

Kids are not
disturbed,
pulling
cardboards
and scratching
grounds.

The radio
transmits
news from
yesterday, it is
morning still.

Look, the
clouds.

cest kroull

She didn’t
know. She was
looking for a
store.

She had one
plastic bag in
her right
hand. Then
left and then
right.

cest kroull

Whispers,
playing with
an arm vein.
Touching table
cloth.

Crackers, cold
coffee, three
steps under
the weather.

There is some
kind of
tension.

cest kroull

Hans-Christian Lotz

  • Eröffnung
  • 21.10.2011
  • 18–21 Uhr
  • Ausstellung
  • 22.10. – 21.12.2011
  • Fr/Sa 13–18 Uhr
Hans-Christian Lotz 2011 Rain over water. Hans-Christian Lotz 2011 Rain over water. Hans-Christian Lotz 2011

Rain over Water, 2011
166 x 100 cm

Rain over water. Hans-Christian Lotz 2011

Rain over Water, 2011
166 x 100 cm

Rain over water. Hans-Christian Lotz 2011

Rain over Water, 2011
166 x 100 cm

Rain over water. Hans-Christian Lotz 2011

Rain over Water, 2011
166 x 100 cm

Ohne Titel. Hans-Christian Lotz 2011

Ohne Titel, 2009/2011
31,6 x 23,6 cm