How stars are just holes in the sky
Elisabeth Molin, 2018 (ENG)
We walk in the city at night, she catches momentary glimpses of things, half the structure of an archetypal downfall, lines suspended in the indefinite, this candid street light where shadows form lines that will or might meet. She talks about this short moment before a drop of water hits the ground, she talks about wavelengths and the magnetic field; about how electrons repel each other and how this resistance has come to constitute what we call touch.
We are lying underneath a metal structure looking at a point on the map. It is a cross where two materials meet, one is organically bent, a half circular swing - at arms length - the other mechanically cut, with wheels on it - suggesting in moments the scenario of if, like the suggestive play of a hand gesture - a quick doodle and this moment after an object hits the ground, Slam, this human shaped ball, as aftermath, as if everything that happened here, had happened somewhere else, as if the air between the molecules carried messages with them. As if – What if; we defined the space, not as object, subject and walls but in the tension between them? What if air was something we could cut into pieces like we cut cake and eat it?
The ant crawls circular – diagonally - peripherally across the torn out page, leaving traces of an invisible act, fingers suspended in the air, drawing circular movements, hands leaking particles of a black substance onto the floor, shiny from one perspective, burning the retina - matt from another, like holes in the ground (like how stars are just holes in the sky) they take you deeper, pushes you down, like weight on a scale, flat in away, round in another and this split second of perplexity, plastic carved out, cut into pieces, this division line between rock solid and thin threadthe notion of moving wiggling like a worm throughout the space.
When I close my eyes in this space, the space and my body melt together, as if the closing of the eyelids opens up a curtain of images that flow freely between times, impressions and emotions. It’s a space where elements aren’t bound by gravity and where objects aren’t made of real material but simulations, soft around the edges and transformative, as if the black space of the monitor was soft and leaking, as if the clay that holds the wire could slip, like our imagination slips.
Materials melt,Like our hands melt in the black blanketThe night time leaks black particles into the airFilling up streetsCracks and CornersCubic meter by cubic meter