Posts in Category: Non classé

Week 158 – July 25 to August 1

Maithili Bavkar

Today, Tomorrow, 2023, Digital print

Today, Tomorrow,

I woke up having forgotten which way to turn the key to my door.

It was as though somebody had taken apart pieces of me while I had been asleep, only to put me back together, like a puzzle; and in the process had misplaced one of the pieces. So irrelevant it had been, that the puzzle looked complete enough without it, and the solver just walked away shrugging.

Or maybe it was an accident on a microscopic scale, concerning a couple trillion neurons and synapses, and a single fallen martyr.

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Kasia Ozga

Sentinel, Digital Photograph, 2023.

I returned to Saint-Etienne after a year’s absence. My old studio used to have a municipal alarm system like the one in the image, above. It would blare out with deafening wailing sounds like clockwork on the first Thursday of every month. I usually put on ear protection and worked through the noise. If the alarm test day coincided with a morning when I brought my newborn into the studio, we had to go out of the building and down the street to escape the noise. I can’t imagine living somewhere where air raid sirens are an almost daily occurrence that actually indicates real and present danger.

Manuela Morgaine

Facing Odessa – Photograph of a face facing the destruction of the cathedral in Odessa, Ukraine, July 24, 2023.

Aurelia Mihai

Living Monuments II, Performance and video installation, 2022 – 2023

Liza Dimbleby

Hungarian Oak, Glasgow, July 2023

Letter from Glasgow: Living Oaks 

That evening, when I had finished the drawing,  I walked down the hill by my house. I stopped by a tree at the bottom of the hill. It is a tall oak, with arms raised up as if in greeting. You could not hide in this one’s skirts, but her head is almost heart shaped. A plaque says that this is a Hungarian oak, planted in 1918 to celebrate the granting of votes to women. I think of it as a tall woman. Young, by oak standards. Oak trees can live a thousand years. Two thousand, according to Pliny the Elder.

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Week 157 – July 18 to July 25

Katja Stuke

 Multiverse
one-channel-video, 2023
16:9, 4K, 10:32 min
sound: Pondskater

Cornelia Eichhorn

Humaps N°17, 25x35cm, papercut done with leftovers from other series, 2023 all rights reserved.

Liza Dimbleby

A drawing of Glasgow that took the TransSiberian  photo by Liza Dimbleby (2018)

Letter from Glasgow: Train to the Future 

I had hoped to go back to Prague for the last month’s residency, to see what remained of my memories, but it turned out that I could not. I had wanted to approach the city by train again, from the other side, thirty three years later. There would be no radio chiming the hours, no polished wooden corridors or jars of tea in metal holders, perhaps no mystery. A journey of nostalgia, of curiosity?

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Week 156 – July 11 to July 18

Manuela Morgaine

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Miroir du futur – Photographie, Ceska Skalice, Tchékoslovaquie, juin 2023.

« Avec ces gants vous traverserez les miroirs comme de l’eau. 

Il ne s’agit pas de comprendre, il s’agit de croire. » 

Orphée, Jean Cocteau, 1950

Liza Dimbleby

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Letter from Glasgow: Drawing and Losing

I covered the couch with a Qashqai rug, a worn runner that my mother no longer wanted, but which was too long for my hallway. It fitted just right. I added some cushions and a blanket. It made a pretty good near relative of the couch in London, at the Freud Museum. It was somewhat creaky, being over a hundred years old, and had un-sprung itself in places, but I like to lie there and stare, out of the window, along my bookshelves, daydreaming.

What use to me the clarity, the lucidity? Classification continues to elude me, and the re-arranged papers form a new pattern on the carpet covered couch, in this endless circle of losing and finding.

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Kyung-hwa Choi-ahoi

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“there and away”

21 x 29,7cm, pencil on paper, 2022

Katja Stuke

Katja Stuke, Sans Titre
Collage pour une vidéo sur le Métavers, 2023

Week 155 – July 4 to July 11

Anne Dubos

« – Nobody can catch us,
– I don’t know, let’s see what happens…
– 1, 2, 3, Heeeeelp !
– I cannot see a thing…
– It’s all in your mind. »
The ballad of Lady and Bird, Ceska Skalice, Luxfer Residency.

Manuela Morgaine

She/We were dancing together there/Bojena’s Dance floor – stills from a video made during an Artistic Residency of THE CROWN LETTER
in Luxfer Gallery, Ceska Skalice, Czecholovakia, June 27- July 4,  2023.

Ruth Maclennan

Aquarium, HD video, 2 minutes, 2023

Valeria Troubina

Before the storm, watercolour on paper, 2023

Kyung-hwa Choi-ahoi

Video diary _ Thunderbolt, 21 June 2023

Week 153 – June 20 to June 27

Aurelia Mihai

Living Monuments II, Performance and video installation, Photografie, 2022 – 2023

 

Katja Stuke

Collage pour une vidéo sur le Métavers, 2023.

Neringa Naujokaite

“Ohne Titel (Stencils)” , Photography.

Liza Dimbleby

Letter from Glasgow: Instructions for a Heatwave

The gallery attendant has left the room, a clipboard with her list of visitor numbers lies on her chair, and a book, Instructions for a Heatwave. It looks like a novel, not a handbook. Although we could do with both. The heatwave is much hotter than the one thirty years ago.

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Kyung-hwa Choi-ahoi

Diary Drawing _ No. 8672_ April 8th, 2023 
Size: 21 x 29,7cm, oil on paper

Manuela Morgaine

La paix Ardenne – 7/5/2023.

Il arrive qu’au cœur des tourmentes et des guerres qui englobent tout de boue, de sang et de mort, on puisse s’arrêter de faire face quelques moments qui deviennent sacrés. A ce moment-là, l’apparition d’un monde en paix reprenant ses couleurs et sa grâce sont sources d’apaisement. A la brutalité viendra toujours s’opposer la douceur dans un interstice de ce qu’on regarde.

It happens that in the midst of turmoil and wars that encompass all mud, blood and death, one can stop to face a few moments that become sacred. At that moment, the appearance of a peaceful world resuming its colors and its grace are sources of appeasement. Brutality will always be opposed by softness in an interstice of what we are looking at.

Week 152 – June 13 to June 20

Kasia Ozga

Ice Cream Heaven, 2023

Liza Dimbleby

Looking Back, Berlin, May 2023
Letter from Berlin:  Ghosts We were late for the film and the box office had just closed. They said we could have a drink instead. And so we ascended the stairs into the wide space of the bar of Kino International, which was completely empty. Kino International was built in 1961, the same year as the Berlin Wall. It was the main cinema for premieres and award ceremonies under Communism. You could picture it, the slightly sweaty dignitaries in brown suits and fake leather shoes of turgid grey lined up for speeches under the extravagant chandeliers. But this evening there was nobody. The huge yet undaunting space, the rippled wood walls, shiny black tables and red chairs were perfect. This enormous empty room was proportioned for optimism, it was a place to be happily human, for a while at least. I was glad we had missed the film. I looked across the street to the high Soviet scale arch of a metro exit, the only lit building on the street, and watched a couple pause, pace about, embrace. They were tiny under the space of the arch and yet every small gesture was legible. Click here to read more

Ruth Maclennan

Escapee

Maithili Bavkar

Wilson, 2023
What I have is the memory of staring at mosaic tiles with an unfocused gaze, and watching them turn to waves.

Anne Brunswic

Rio Gallegos, March 2023

Lucia, la sœur.

Disparus 2
J’ai rencontré Lucia en mars 2023 à Rio Gallegos, petite ville sans attrait touristique du sud de la Patagonie. Elle est comédienne et metteuse en scène de théâtre mais, au premier regard, je ne l’aurais pas imaginé : sans apprêt, taille moyenne, cheveux châtains coupés court, rien qui attire la lumière. Elle m’a fait comprendre qu’elle avait quelque chose à me raconter. Je suis revenue le lendemain avec un magnétophone et un micro. Son récit coulait comme une large rivière au cours paisible. Elle s’exprimait dans un espagnol simple et fluide que je pouvais suivre sans grand effort. Ce matin-là, elle portait un petit pullover à col roulé rose, elle avait l’air fatigué. Click here to read more

Valeria Troubina

Still Life with Red Drapery, oil on canvas, Ukraine, 1988

Anne Dubos

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K3KE6Dc57JU
BEN . DRUMMINGS . 1

Week 151 – June 6 to June 13

Catherine Radosa

Rues de la Fraternité·e, Participatory performance and sound and visual installation

Photographed 3 June 2023, for the Nuit Blanche 2023 and the curatorial project “actes de langage” (acts of language) by simona dvorák & tadeo kohan. The project takes as its subject a place and its name: rue de la Fraternité (Street of Brotherhood) in Montreuil. The aim is to deploy, question, appropriate, update and set in motion the word ‘fraternité’ and what it inspires and evokes.
Through interviews with a group of women, I composed a polyphony of words and testimonies, questioning representations and alternatives to this symbolic and gendered term.

Photo Credits: Catherine Radosa, Tadeo Kohan, Christophe Domino

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Maithili Bavkar

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Fractured skies, 2023

Never before had I possessed a piece of sky so vast that it may be fractured.

Manuela Morgaine

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Les lumières dans le ciel. Reflective photography, June 2023.

Ruth Maclennan

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Drawing Berthe drawing Edma, June 2023

Valeria Troubina

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Enquiry and Weeping Heroes, Diptych, oil on canvas, Ukraine, 1988

Week 150 – May 30 to June 6

Week 150 – May 30 to June 6

Liza Dimbleby

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Notice of Death, paint and pencil on paper, May 2023

Maithili Bavkar

How to make a house of threads

Find a corner on the floor and start building a house of threads.
Think about what it would be like to make a house of threads, sit with the idea for a while, think about the (im)possibilities.
Construct a house from memory, an old home, a part of a home, an imagined home or any other place that comes to mind.

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Manuela Morgaine

TESOUROS, Algarve, may 28.

Kyung-hwa Choi-ahoi

Video diary _ Sparrows, 21 May 2023

Week 149 – May 23 to May 30

Kyung-hwa Choi-ahoi

Diary Drawing _ No. 8479_ May 2th, 2022
Diary Drawing _ No. 8479_ May 2th, 2022, Size: 21 x 29,7cm, oil on paper.

When a first day of the week comes: 
A headscarf will give birth to an anaconda whose name is Monday. She will bring woman and freedom”

Manuela Morgaine

GHOSTING – I met a Ghost, I’m still haunted by the Ghost.

The practice of ending a personal relationship with someone by suddenly and without explanation withdrawing from all communication.

A form of psychological violence that consists of disappearing overnight, ignoring someone, not responding, without giving any explanation.

Kasia Ozga

Green Graffiti, Ohio, May 2023.

I am obsessed with the texture of tree bark in the wild. Nooks, crags, and crannies constantly beckon the lens of my camera as I lag behind my family of hikers, documenting every strange shape that catches my eye. I am fascinated by the impulse to mark-making on a living thing. Yesterday, I came upon row upon row of vandalized trees in a State Forest.

The idea of tattooing a person against their will evokes images of slavery and genocide but maybe my metaphor means I am too shocked-sensitive to violence. The ritual scarification of nature is benign for many people. Cutting through cork is a form of proof: a testament of love from Robin Hood to Maid Marian, a memory engraved in a blackboard that will outgrow your body, a permanent way to state ‘I was here.”

Liza Dimbleby

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Totem and Taboo (II), paint on paper, May 2023

Letter from Glasgow: Written on birch

Birch trees seem to like railways, you travel through them as you enter Glasgow, and Berlin and then east to Moscow and Siberia. An endless shuttering of birch trunks through the train window, their verticals marking the space. It isn’t monotonous, it is even reassuring. They accompany my journeys, anticipated and remembered. I look them in the eye.

Recently these tree trunks have begun to people my paintings and drawing. They sit about a dining table. A felled tree between them like a family secret, or a dead man laid out. What do they do with something that is part of them?

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Anne Dubos

« Ma main sur ton dos », Benoît Travers pour ‘Les Archives du Care », Studio Woffenden-Boontje, Bourg Argental, Mai 2023.

Week 148 – May 16 to May 23

Katja Stuke

Sans Titre, Collage pour une vidéo sur le Métavers, 2023

Anne Dubos

‘A gesture of Love from A. to B.’, The Archives of Care.

Manuela Morgaine

How long? dawn thoughts, May 15.

Anne Brunswic

View from Darwin cemetery, Falklands/Malvinas, dec 2018.

Retour sur le cimetière de Darwin

Les disparus 1.

Ma chronique du 25 octobre 2022 (Crown Letter week 120) revient sur une visite au cimetière de Darwin en décembre 2018. « Argentinian cemetary / Cementero argentino », indiquait le petit panneau à l’entrée de la piste cailloutée mais aucun drapeau argentin ne flottait sur le quadrillage de croix blanches dominant le vallon de Darwin. Une centaine de tombes anonymes portaient alors l’épitaphe “Soldado argentino solo conocido por Dios“. L’armée argentine avait abandonné à l’ennemi la charge d’inhumer ses morts. Deux fois abandonnés. Deux fois trahis. Ils reposaient dans une steppe glaciale balayée par un vent féroce. Faute de normalisation des relations entre les deux pays, les premières visites venaient seulement d’être autorisées, trente-six ans après la fin de la guerre. Les fleurs et les rosaires en plastique que je photographiais étaient tout neufs.  L’épitaphe avait quelque chose d’une prière. Comment ne pas en appeler à la grâce du Seigneur ?

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Liza Dimbleby

Totem and Taboo, Paint and pencil on paper, May 2023

Letter from Glasgow: A bed of lichen, a table of moss.

It’s going to be a Bibiliotheque Imaginaire, she writes, an imaginary library, to wear on her head. Can you send me the title of a book, real or imagined? The first thing that surfaces is moss. My book would be a bed of moss, but I need another syllable. A mattress of moss? No, a mattress feels too awkward and practical, a table then. She likes it. A Table of Moss and Other Stories? Yes, it might include Un Lit de Lichen, I text back.. Something solid and permanent like moss, or lichen. But my predictive text wants to write libido, not lichen. Although it is true my devotion to lichen might have something libidinous in it. And I have long dreamed of beds of lichen and moss, and sometimes trees are asleep in these beds.

As I was day-dreaming titles I had not been thinking of the camps or of the actual, not mossy, but decidedly urban mattresses that are left behind after each clearance, the one thing that people cannot run away with. The mattresses are always the first things to be brought, dragged over pavements, and the things that remain after everyone has been moved on. The beds of moss, or lichen, indicate a world where it is safe to lie down anywhere, where nobody claims possession of the territory and where you can gently dream. A sort of permanence, old as lichen, as libido.

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Kasia Ozga

Barbe Espagnol (Spanish Moss), Digital Photograph, Lafayette, Louisiana, May 2023.

I flew South like a migrating bird, towards the Atlantic Ocean and the petrochemical plants. Between the storied buildings of academia and the strip malls of urban sprawl, there was a carefully curated swamp, complete with do-not-feed alligators and roving turtles.

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