Cave3000 is a private apartment and studio run by Natasja Loutchkos that aims to “investigate the balance between private and public through dialogue with other artists by invitation to make changes to the space via performance and exhibition while encouraging public interaction.”
The weekend slowly progressed from a more performative Saturday into a relaxed Sunday. As well as both the artists, Indriði Arnar Ingólfsson and Allegra Isenberg also participated in creating what was described as an ‘activation’ of objects and wearables.
Paying close attention to their role in comfort and (self)care, the pair explored how portables become a necessity to acquire an adventurous state of mind, while the performance announcement came accompanied by an excerpt from an e-publication of Italo Calvino’s 1957 philosophical fiction novel ‘The Baron in the Trees‘, where a 12-year-old Cosimo Piovasco di Rondò climbs a tree in search of Utopia.
Over a couple of hours, the performers each presented and interacted with the pieces in different modes of activity. Unfolding in a number of directions, the movement of bodies played out against the backdrop of a dreamy, eerie soundtrack that burbled through the rooms’ silence with a misshapen mix of songs by Justin Bieber and Taylor Swift, and samples of running water, heavy breathing, a heartbeat. Played on repeat, the music is called ‘Spapop’, a genre developed for the occasion and soon to evolve with further projects.
In addition to the musical and performative elements of Sist u; legs dangling, hands tucked in, narrations were also read out from two short fictional texts, which were written in relation to the displayed objects: one, an interview with a young female bodyguard written by Rosengarten, the other, a monologue, called Chain of thoughts during a to long hotel stay, written by Leifsdóttir.
An excerpt from Chain of thoughts during a too long hotel stay by Leifsdóttir builds on the themes and motifs established by a book like ‘The Baron of the Trees’:
“I had been watching the TV upside down with my head leaning of the bed for a while, abstracting the vivid scene of a small group of pre-teens that for some reason had been stranded on a tropical island. Commonly they collected sticks and bound them together, creating huts and bridges high up in the trunks of massive trees. Camouflage constructions hidden with tropical leaves and only accessible via a foldable ladder, a system that would keep any possible danger away.
Out of sticks they created tools which they hung around their waist, carrying everything they needed for surviving in the jungle. Packing for arriving here had felt similar, preparing survival kit for working in isolated circumstances. Now I spent most of my time within my room, with my necessities I spread around I had started systematically studying the details of the surroundings. As if recognizing each and every pattern and bump would give me an ownership or even control over the otherwise impersonal space.”
Leifsdóttir is a Reykjavík-born and currently Los Angeles-based artist working with sculpture and descriptive fiction that explores the traces of a physical absence by focussing on detail. Rosengarten is a Berlin-born artist, right now based in New York whose interests lie somewhere in the “bath and beyond” within a practice that exists between digital and analogue realities. Both Leifsdóttir and Rosengarten are ordinarly based in Berlin and work within the realm of sculpture, performance and writing.
Keep an eye out for the continuation of the conversation over the coming months and the new projects that will be published through Berlin’s M.I/mi1glissé new online space.**
Nina Kettiger is presenting solo exhibition Your limbs never wear out at Berlin’s M.I/mi1glissé, opening July 15 and running to July 29.
A short poem, presumably composed by the Berlin-based artist and curator who in 2014 set up The Intimate Project, accompanies the press release and slides between things like “making it out alive” and “making out alive”, and touching something inside and out.
Otherwise there is little information to guide the viewer before the exhibition opens, although we might expect a combination of performance and words, similar to the work Kettiger presented in the Ying Colosseum Late Night Lullabyexhibition that aqnb reviewed earlier this year, as well as for Manifesta 11.
The intimacies of the work in Sadness of Microtonality 3.3 talk of environment and experience. Nicolas Humbert’s final instalment of a trilogy work of exhibitions and performances, running at Berlin’s M.I/mi1glissé from April 6 to 8, feels like a sincere decision to soften the positions of audience/viewer and artist/performer across his varying fields of production.
An hour or so before the scheduled concert —opening a two-day exhibition to follow —a few people are sat on benches outside. The building’s facade maintains a resilience amid the commercial galleries and cafe-restaurants in the city’s Mitte district. It houses a large artist community throughout the floors above and a re-purposed theatre in the back.
Humbert is in the space setting up. In the window looking out over the doorway is a drawing of the Egyptian God, Set. On close inspection its surface is covered in burn marks and residue from a soldering iron. On the other side of the room is a white bar or counter, pushed up against a wall, a group of Humbert’s works collectively titled ‘Endfile’ convene around it. An LCD monitor sits on top along with two collages in A4 plastic wallets, on the wall a further arrangement hangs in plastic packaging alongside three drawings.
The monitor shows a static, semi-transparent digital composition in front of a YouTube clip of a man filming himself eating a sausage in his home: An instructional, tongue-in-cheek demonstration on how to eat a traditional Weisswurst. At this stage the work feels like a Start Menu for a game and on the floor there is a PlayStation 3 playing the file, tucked beside the counter, which adds to this narrative.
A still of the man’s face burns at me through the pixels. My eyes trace a line drawing of a wolf across the screen and it floats amongst other symbols and logos that I can’t decipher. In the middle of the screen there is a cropped image of ‘90s video game avatar Sonic the Hedgehog with a text that reads “OW THE EDGE”. The text pokes fun at the clip’s content, trolling its simplicity and its lack of edginess. Sonic is shown here in black and red, a revamped character from a more recent version of the game in an attempt to give the hedgehog a new life for a new generation of players.
There is no information to accompany Sadness of Microtonality 3.3, and this coupled with the amount of material in the videos and collages accelerates their rawness. One of the drawings has a note on the counter beside it with a name written in pencil. I ask Humbert what this means. The drawing was made by the artist’s friend as they sat in a cafe together waiting for a filming job to start. Another drawing records observations of a train journey. The lack of information in the space encourages me to talk with Humbert and curator Joel Mu. Access to the work feels deregulated in this way like much of the M.I/mi1glissé programming and does so with its community in mind. Several works contain lines of written code scrawled in pen and pencil. Ancient and futuristic, the specific framework of the coding language is redirected through its new materials into mark-making and symbolism.
In the center of the room two mattresses have been brought down from the living space upstairs to prepare a stage for the 9pm event. Billed as a concert online and not a performance, this wording feels like a subtle interrogation of its context. Sat at the edge of the mattress island, a Nintendo 3DS in a papier-mâché crown displays a video that documents neuesternenkunde.neocities.org one of Humbert’s websites. Filmed using a 3D camera, the video scans the surface of a screen, attempting to focus on and move between elements trying to find three-dimensional depth. What we see being played back is a messy register of the website and its architecture. This video feels really important to the way Humbert presents us with his practice. It effects a technological disuse and our access is directed through the console and its consumer-3D aspirations. The viewer gets entangled between a process of capturing the material and experiencing it.
The concert, a work entitled ‘Denmark Siren’ begins its drone through a pair of computer speakers. Projected on the wall behind, Humbert’s laptop screen shows the program Supercollider, its lines of code have been altered into a familiar/generic gothic font. I close my eyes and focus my ears. Some coins fall to the floor and a small dog wanders around. The volume is subtle and the room’s sounds fold into the composition. Twenty minutes in, Humbert abruptly halts the program and freestyles a pack of irregular clicks and whimpers using only his vocal chords. After a minute or so he returns to the laptop and re-engages the planned material, and after some time, a human voice emerges in the mix. It is a fuzzy repetitive shouting, someone in the audience acknowledges the sample, a possible field recording they collaborated on, or perhaps it is their voice?
After the concert I ask Humbert about the vocal break. He said that the dog in the audience influenced him, and that he is able to replicate subtle animal sounds. He also tells me that the font is the same generic typeface used by notorious black metal band Burzum for their albums. Already codified and specific in its language, the algorithmic composition gets pushed behind a further layer of signification here, unleashing a darker reading to those who may be able to access it. The standard gothic typeface was used by Burzum as a non-aesthetic decision to not have a logo or a constructed brand identity but these things aggregate historically and get referred to specifically within sub-cultures. It feels like a humorous take on a traditional form of branding, like writing in marker pen a band’s name on your backpack, and the sadness in what is co-opted and what is lost in these gestures.
Sat before the humble stage-set, I begin to think about sadness. Is Humbert trying to produce a different space for us to experience it? It’s immersive possibilities are pared down through a quasi-domestic arrangement that feels pragmatic, but what is to become of the concert artefacts that remain as an exhibition? They become sad sculptures, scraps of experience that have been used already. What is the realm of my experience as someone non-native to his codes and symbols? What do I experience if I didn’t make it to the concert? Humbert’s position is open and both his work and the context challenge his subcultures their specificity and what it is we can experience depending on what our access is.**
The second, There’s No Place Like Homes, is a screening of video by Magdalena Mitterhofer and Damian Machaj (pandamian), and a related performance “featuring a boy, shoes and hot wax”. The one night exhibition is by Saliva/Lukas Hofmann and the associated Ikea Made Fashion.
M.I rarely gives more information with their events than the bare minimum, leaving everything to be encountered in the space and on the occasion.
See the two M.I facebook events, here / here for (limited) details.**
Berlin’sM.I is hosting No Private Problems, a solo presentation by writer Eleanor Weber, which opens on February 24.
There is hardly any information to indicate what will be in the space and how the work will exist, although we are given dates for ‘voice sessions’ that span the gap between February and March.
M.I have been posting texts, small and long, throughout the Facebook event page, which reference Joan of Arc, gender pronouns, the abstract voice, sitting in a church, and a quote by Lacan: “only Saints are detached from the deepest of the common passions to avoid the aggressive reactions to charity”.
M.I in Berlin’s neighbourhood of Mitte will host a one-night-only live work by Nicholas Humberton February 11.
The night is called Sadness of Microtonality 2.2.
Very little information is given with the facebook invite apart from the names: Ir Anuk and Ir Halak, who are twin sister ‘deathsingers’ from online game Destiny, and a couple of curious screenshots including an image of Jesus as half-woman.
The one-night-only work follows Sadness of Microtonality 1.1 which happened in December at M.I and held a similar mysterious ambiguity around its invite, including gifs, sensitive screen grabs and tiny quotes like “Triple kill” that could be imagined heard in the ear of a gamer.
There will be a part three soon to the Sadness series, which the curator Joel Mu locates as being a mix between music on the dance floor, home-time game play and emotional ambience.
Wulfy Benzo is hosting the ‘Story of Rat’ music event at the Auguststraße 10 location of Berlin’s M.I on January 14.
The Berlin-based producer will be performing with Blue Storkand Sky H1, the latter of whom released their ‘FLUID’ EP with Creamcake during their 3hd Festival in December 2015. Aside from limited information on the event itself, the nebulous Berlin gallery’s FB page, the announcement includes extensive diary posts presented in the voice of an anthropomorphised travelling rat: “There was one thing that Cat, 9021 and me, Rat, all had in common; we hated Dog.”
Steinum’s characteristic use of fabric and textile art, woven and suspended from metal racks, along with found object-filled sculptures, have populated her past exhibitions, particularly her one at Rod Barton. She continues her unique craft with Ambiguous Container for Rational Stuff with works that reveal spiralled writing snaking through unrolled toilet paper.
M.I, a temporary gallery space initiated by curator and art history researcher Joel Mu, opened to the public with solo show, «25.06–4.07.15/Exhibition-Information/MI-groundfloor-attic/Auguststr-10-Berlin/opening-Wed-24-June-6pm», by Christophe de Rohan Chabot on June 24. The gallery, which will be open two weeks at the end of each month, has residence on the ground floor shopfront of collective house and theatre project Kunsthaus KuLe, with a satellite space in the building’s attic.
From one end of the building to the other the space absorbs the physical interruption of a stairwell, a passageway marked with the lives of its tenants, past and present. In addition to this spatial split, the gallery must also reckon with inconstant temporality, due to a timeshare arrangement with the house’s various other projects. Its online presence, limited to a Facebook page is intentionally scant. All the information available on the event page is deferred to its title, a notably wordy string of text that is formatted like a backend directory listing, as if it were meant to be read by a computer. It is evocative of ethereal processes, the hundreds of invisible automated communications made in the background of our online manoeuvrings, or the nanoscopic transformations inside each energetic shift. Inside the space, the objects of this exhibition are a series of documentations, scattered hefts of printed A4 pages, Its affect / effect is experiential. An apparent collaboration between artist and curator, M.I’s inaugural show offers an intelligent and elegant take on reconfiguring space and establishing a presence on what is one of the most institutionally entrenched and commercially established gallery strips in Berlin.
Entering through the back door, the exhibition room is unassuming, the installation minimal. Chairs are lined up along two opposing walls, white printouts collect on seats; stapled bundles, loose piles, single pages. Visitors flip through fastened sheets, or sit balancing a wad of loose pages on their laps. In the fattest pile, a few words printed on the bottom right corner of every other page, ‘entrance’, ‘chair’, ‘door’, ‘couch’, ‘advertisement’. On alternate pages there are small images, an ornate foyer, a front door, a poster on a toilet door. The words and pictures are both generic and increasingly familiar. Another heft depicts a floor plan, walls, windows, doors, a couch, marking dimensions, obstacles, entrances and exits. Yet another is a chat between artist and curator. A back and forth about the show, the title, design of a poster for the door, who should host the FB event.
A meta gesture, the pages – materialised in the space – depict the physicalities of the building like a reverse hypostatisation, situating, somewhere between the documentation of the space and its physical presence, a proxy. Like a trompe l’oeil, it writes the space into the imagination of those viewing the work.
The challenge of opening any space has to do with how it gets filled, as important as the art objects being shown are the energies, old and new, that take up residence. Cleared and freshly painted, a room becomes a gallery, is elevated to a spiritual plain. Even when emptied and white, a pristine space can be haunted by its past. A few forgotten tiles point to where a kitchen sink had been, an intentional reference in the name, or a disparity between patrons and local residents made apparent on opening nights. They hang about as traces, as ghosts, as indicators of the space’s positioning within structural paradigms.
Chabot’s installation is a kind of incantation. It works as a spell, perhaps an exorcism, as if Chabot were not so much showing his work but providing a service. In post event digital times, art shows can happen on an informational level without having to take physical space. From virtual exhibition platforms to the fact that most art is circulated as installation documentation. Chabot offers up this informational aspect as a proxy, as a kind of voodoo doll. By allowing this proxy to become precarious, the space is reconfigured.
As people handle the works, pages get separated, some drop to the floor or are scattered across surfaces. It is not clear where they belong, if they are in order, if there is an order. As they start to show the marks of wear and use – as this informational portrait falls apart – their original precarity becomes true. Like a shedding plant, Chabot’s virtual representation collapses but is still supported by the space that it was meant to represent. The leaves drop but they are kept, collected by the room.
On another level, the exhibition also addresses anxieties connected to data regimes. There is a kind of mythology or fear connected to digital information, that while our bodies will rot and buildings will fall, data because of its immaterial state will last forever. By exposing the show’s informational portrait as precarious, it also serves as a relief, as a kind of spell against this fear.
Between the poetics of default settings of printing technologies and the corruption or interruption of its depiction, the room is freed of its virtual representation and hence is divorced from its former uses, the remaining questions of which being tied to this representation. This moment is a generous one in which the room, the exhibition space, M.I., is allowed to become itself. **