(The Poetics of Cutting)

Finally. Maybe I should say, ”at long last”. After waiting for something to happen, I realized that there lay no ways ahead between which to choose. The words were already there, objects with specific meanings. It´s the meanings that have to be reconstituted. Another way. Maybe the words have to abandon their life as objects and be placed in the blank space to which you usually refer, or at least return, like a question asked with material instead of words. Material that provides the word its meaning on a level that simultaneously sinks or evokes darkness around language itself. I imagine this darkness already exists as an endless, embracing body and that you confront it with the same attentiveness that you give all material, and everything material, around you. It is no longer visible or accessible. This is how I thought at first. Before I realized that you treat the darkness the same way as a blank sheet of paper. The impression left by a gesture not only indicates position, a boundary, but also lends the white a bodily presence, like the dark. Of course, I might be wrong.

Weight. The specific weight with which the ”hanging” populated your studio for a long time, offering resistance to all who would enter. The hanging was made of abandoned lengths of cable from every imaginable electric circuit, telephony, the Internet, every kind of connection. Communication, in other words. No citizen left unconnected. You gathered, cut and hung these filaments to sway just above the floor, as if to make the weight of their collective energy assume the semblance of a physical body. Their levitating act was amplified by the visible scars left open by cutting, guillotining the cables. The inner core of the cable, thin metal threads (copper?) protected by several layers of colourful plastic or rubber insulation. The encapsulated, multicoloured wires dripped from mitred tips like tears – like every cable was a person. And the sculpture a community. Communities always try to avoid weeping. People cannot, however, not without great effort.
Spending time in your studio then meant spending time in that body. In that sculpture. External and internal space merged seamlessly. The distance necessary for the gaze to distinguish itself from its surroundings was gone. Eradicated. The hanging offered no image to relate to. An image to ponder like an Aristotle: Is there anything here in which I recognize myself? Maybe after all. When I leave the embrace of the sculpture, I remind myself that the threads were only that: hanging. Nothing else. A place of grief where all meaning fled.

Material. This was the sculpture you transformed into a corridor, through which the visitor was compelled to pass at your exhibit at Galleriet. The entrance. Incredibly beautiful and sad at the same time. The appearance of the sculpture was constantly reborn as hands felt their way into the space. Only to reassume its original shape. Passage left no trace.
A passage that only leaves traces in memory, regardless of how many enter. It makes no note of quantity, only the quality of intelligent emotion. There is no physical confirmation of one´s passage.
The gallery was dark and the objects, the sculptures, lit with spots in the usual way. In the darkness within, a handmade copper mailbox, a seal cast in bronze, a man (a projection) returned to cave dwelling and the feeling of sound. Sound is always in movement. Never strays from the living. The mailbox leans a bit casually, abandoned, as if no one had used it in a long time. But the materiality of it moves decay toward the viewer. Mankind is that whose body and time are interwoven. The body and space of the handmade copper mailbox have time to wait for letters, from someone or somewhere whose memory may be longer than mankind´s. The seal too, cast in bronze, and with the palpable presence of the hand that made it, will survive long after QR codes no longer open up virtual worlds. Its meaning and references will be reunited with the root system of material. The seal consigns hope of winning more time. Demands that we use all the time we have gained as efficiently as possible.
To stay a while, just a moment, in the blank space of time gained makes me realize the necessity of the ”poetics of cutting” you divulge to us – over and over again.

Roland Spolander