mandag 26. september 2016

Walking the hills, always on my mind

    Collectors cabinet Malcolm Ashman/Inger Karthum

Ett blikk inn i dette lille skapet, og jeg kastes fram og tilbake i tid. Der finner jeg min fars lille sigarett-eske fra før jeg ble født. Jeg husker den godt. Glimt da den ble trukket fram, sigarettrøyken, lukten blandet med synsinntrykk fra lokstallene i Narvik by.
En museumskopi kjøpt i Athen på -70 tallet. Bevares, for en tur det var.
Og her er London i nyere tid, besøk i Bath, arbeid i Malcolms atelier, måltider og container raiding, utstillinger og bortgjemte loppemarkeder.
Og en liten papirbit som M sparte på i mange år: 'your wish will be granted after a long delay'

Og hele denne verden er jeg en heldig og lykkelig deltager i dag.

Om en uke reiser jeg igjen til Bath til mine venner, til vår første felles utstilling i Bath Contemporary.

                    Inni her er det hemmeligheter som jeg tror kunne interessere flere

WALKING THE HILLS by Barry Lee Thompson

Night coats the world in stillness. We walk until a solitary place is found where thoughts can be given weight. We consider in silence. Our ideas reach out. A gentle spinning begins, and, despite an accelerating complexity, sleep comes quickly.
A dream, of two cities connected by a tunnel, but not a physical tunnel, rather an opening in each place, penetrating into accumulated layers of time, cutting deep through shared spaces, exposing experiences. The cities and the connective space is layers. Layered so each element is pressed or held within. Listen: from beyond come faint echoes, the churning industry of life and water and land and its scapes, creating new layers. And here, where we are, is not enclosed but open to everything, yet it feels like a chamber because of the quiet and because of something else. Moving through this space called a tunnel we become captivated by its vastness. We glimpse the past, the future. But despite the scale, it’s carefree, this journey, this moving through place and space and time. Memory can be like this, sometimes, when an outcome is known, definite, resolved, or when it’s simply felt or intuited. We move through, and we collect as we go along, because it’s only natural to want a souvenir. The collector takes, but nothing is owned, all is borrowed. Sentiment is the only thing retained every time, the only thing really worthy of salvage, for it’s a word for feeling.
Waking now. There has been a dream, that’s certain. But the clock ticks and there’s a falling away to the point of disappearance, so that the remembering itself becomes dreamlike. There are remnants, clues: sensory echoes, a feeling of openness, of places joined, of a shared history and future, but that’s all that’s remaining. We stay still, attempt to capture the detail. Softly, quietly, we creep towards it. There it is. Make a grab. But no, it recedes further, further. It’s brought out of reach. It’s like a butterfly, elusive like a butterfly. This is all butterflies, everything is butterflies, fluttering their precious and flimsy and beautiful wings, beating to a rhythm that’s known only to them. But because something can’t be held doesn’t make it any less. We know from past experience that a dream not captured may never return. The most we can wish for is that the same might be dreamed again, or that the dream will, at some time and in some way, be expressed in wakeful actions.

Vi er meget beæret over at en så dyktig og prisbelønt forfatter ville skrive om vår utstilling.
Thank you very much Barry

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