WTWC (Copenhagen, Amsterdam, …, I couldn’t care less about your oxygen)

 

 

Copenhagen, Amsterdam, ..., I couldn’t care less about oxygen

 

and I’ll tell you why

 

I was going to do a sort of performative activation of the collection of working clothes and the whole fragmented picture of identity production, radical responsiveness, economizing exhaustion, corporeality shebang. maybe a reading-cum-fashion-show, a choreography-cum-fashion-show, something-cum-something while putting shirts on and off. While I was stuttering around harvesting words and stealing sentences I thought I better make use of that limbo time and decided to make inflatable body latex puddles as surrogate carriers for the shirts, un-support structures. (thought I could use them while saying the things I needed to say in front of the alternative cph and less alternative unseen audience). but then my grandmother had her final heart attack and started dying. my standards with art making resist the inevitability of death, I now that know. I could have used pre-fabricated latex in an almost-ok natural skin color, but it looked dull and dead and too perfect, it had much less texture and tactile excitement than my laboriously hand-poured latex sheets. yes that is me being romantic about material in the face of death. shit is, I’m not a pro but progressing, the liquid latex ammonia makes me dizzy and one tiny bubble of air while pouring a sheet means the inflatable is contingent of a multiple danger of deflating a slow death. it’s fucking precarious matter. not to mention the dubious joys of glueing latex which feels a bit like trying to put on a very tight and slightly sticky condom and you need to hurry cause you know why. what do I know. so while my grandmother’s organs were failing one after the other over the course of 24 or so hours, I was in my studio, fixing the leaking latex bodies that I had poured, cut and glued.

 

I held each of them tightly on my lap and pressed each of them gently while moving my face and lips closely over the entire surface of each body. (if you ever repaired a punctured bicycle tire, you’ve probably noticed that the face and lips are most sensitive to air or sensations as such and while you might not be able to see a hole, you can feel it with your skin, on your cheeks, on your mouth, on your chin, the space between nose and lips.) I guess these endless hours of repairing the punctured bodies must have looked like a never-ending, intensely erotic foreplay with slumping down skin colored limbs between my legs, as I was touching them everywhere and nowhere, pressing them gently but steadily, turning them, moving them, holding my breath just over their surface and licking them (licking marks the hole). relaxing into the pain.

 

I came here by plane or by bike, dragging my work with me in a suitcase or IKEA bag, everything has to fit the suitcase or IKEA bag, making work with each exhale. we’re the role models of fitting things in suitcases or IKEA bags and there’s no alternative to that. survival is budgeted life. lets did it. lets have the materials speak for themselves on a parallel plane shall we. masturbating on the list of ingredients, gently leaning forwards towards techno forward, give them poor-rich material a voice let it spread its cues. contingent of a lot of stuff, complicit in none, accelerating at idle speed.

 

a selection from a collection of 12 shirts that I made earlier this year, WORKING CLOTHES. natural rubber latex from non-fair trade and probably ethically very uncool origin (sorry contemporary pc artists, no, I am not making a collaborative work with a latex milking collective in sri lanka, drawing attention to their economic situation and entanglement in global markets/exploitation/finances, making them and myself and the art crowd feel just a little bit better about themselves. and send them christmas cards. I bought a lot of bottles of liquid latex from an online sex shop that occasionally sends me dirty dvds as a thank you. and perhaps a dirty santa. I’ll know by christmas). most of the latex is inflated. some is used to write the words “latex” on white cotton. there’s color laser print on temporary tattoo paper on latex. white fruit of the loom long sleeves in unique sizes, laser cut, latex-treated and printed with thermocromic silkscreen ink, flavored with a mix of lavender & rose silkscreen ink scents. the dirty lilac is the color of a medium bruise and changes to transparent, skin color or artificial peach when heated by the bodily stresses it is in touch with. placed on almost-cyan closed cell rubber foam mats (just because I guess it pops like hell on a jpg), together with grey heating cables that are connected to timer clocks from the brand “revolt”.

 

I also prepared necklace prototypes from organic round rice and white fake leather lace in flexible pvc net fiber tubing and inspirational pendants, cute cursives bent into cheap metal. a white porcelain snail I bought on a market in haarlem after my first matrix healing session. a lilac plastic ring with two eyes. I figured the necklaces fit the cables better than the shirts, so maybe an accessory line for cabled electronics is coming up. there’s also a folded A3 with photo of the collection shoot and a text, just take a few, take one for your grandma, I have 500 of them. it was so cheap. Belive, Ha Ho or If We All Cut Off Our Ears, Who Is Left To Hear? is a Google Slide Show.

(photography: David Stjernholm)