The Art of Escaping Time/Kunsten å unnslippe tiden
Installation/performance. Visningsrommet USF, Bergen 9.–18. juni 2023
Consept, creation and performance: Susanne Irene Fjørtoft, Kjartan Andersen
Sound: Roar Slettevold
Funded by Bergen Kommune/Municipality of Bergen
Time is like a river made up of the events which happen, and a violent stream; for as soon as a thing has been seen, it is carried away, and another comes in its place, and this will be carried away too. (Marcus Aurelius, Meditations).
DAY 1
Hazel-trees find a niche where they start a conversation with ropes and bricks. They fly in a three-dimensional cobweb of ropes, flying, and they would fly to the sky if not anchored to the ground by bricks. Movement communicates through the structure in unpredictable ways when you pull on a branch. Crumbled moss spread out under it, and a broken mirror is carefully reconstructed underneath the largest tree. As if it is mirroring itself in a broken lake. Sound of water. The distorted nature. Restricted nature. Unfree nature.
DAY 2
Reading. Repeating. Leave. Step out. Find skin against skin. Arm on the back of the excavating figure, rests, and a pen starts writing. Write the text. Again. On the back of the man brushing earth off secrets in the soil. A poem about a forgotten monument. Once great but now forgotten, broken in the sand.
DAY 3
One picks up a brick. The other one picks up earth. Carry. Bit by bit. One by one. Hard soil and soft soil. Red soil and black soil. Bare feet across the hard floor and bare feet sinking into the soft earth. Back and forth. Not too slow, not too fast, but thoughtful and present. They know what they need to do. They carry on. They must go on.
DAY 4
The great wheel further it’s decline. A whale skeleton washed clean on a shoreline, or an old wooden boat with its boards half rotten and sails torn emerges. The satisfaction is immediate. The longing for this image has been in both minds for a very, very long time.
DAY 5
An ironic gold frame box comes to life, becomes a creature on fragile legs. Bambi on ice. A figure fills it with bark. The legs threaten to break. At the same time another figure builds a bonfire, or a new temple, or a tent, with old branches.
DAY 6
Amundsen has set up camp for the night, the storm is howling outside, but the cloth is motionless. Dead. Still. Silent. Then you hear the fire crackle. The bonfire is lit, the dry branches are burning happily. Black smoke colors the roof and the walls, like a burnt-out building. No, wait. It’s only imaginary.
DAY 7
The shrine has crawled back into a shell-like form, protecting its vulnerable inside, a smaller version of itself. The bonfire burns, the mass grave looms in cold moonlight and the wind howls around the corners of a little, red hut sitting alone on a cliff. Two figures walk. Not together. Alone. One by one. The same route. Past the ghosts of earlier actions.
DAY 8
The gallery space collapses. Earthquake. The box rips apart from its strings – its corners hit the ground. The branches tumble and collect in one corner as the red portrait tongues sprout to life, grow long, thin legs and jump out of the sixth dimension into ours. Wobble and walk. Ice melts, the coast crumble, the cold sun does nothing. Order is struggling against chaos, the balance is shifting, it looks like it will all dissolve. But will it…?
DAY 9
The earthquake has subsided, the eschewed dimension descends and rises again as a box, grounded. It’s shape, the light and an empty pedestal inside tells of a presence not there. Branches are tied to the frame, through the frame, break the pattern, brings associations to the bound forest in the other room. It is still order, but organic, strictly organic.
DAY 10
There is only one final image left. A figure resting inside the remains of the great wheel, curled up, with a fossil in his palm. Another figure makes a rope harness on herself. Around the hip, the thighs, the chest. Then she steps into the naked framework of the universe and suspend herself between heaven and earth. The lone, red cabin on the desolate bark-island is half buried and the cold sun has fallen into the sea. She floats in a backwards bend while the storm is howling. Two figures, motionless. One curled together, the other folded outwards. There is no conclusion. The image ends with this.
Installation/performance. Visningsrommet USF, Bergen 9.–18. juni 2023
Consept, creation and performance: Susanne Irene Fjørtoft, Kjartan Andersen
Sound: Roar Slettevold
Funded by Bergen Kommune/Municipality of Bergen
Time is like a river made up of the events which happen, and a violent stream; for as soon as a thing has been seen, it is carried away, and another comes in its place, and this will be carried away too. (Marcus Aurelius, Meditations).
DAY 1
Hazel-trees find a niche where they start a conversation with ropes and bricks. They fly in a three-dimensional cobweb of ropes, flying, and they would fly to the sky if not anchored to the ground by bricks. Movement communicates through the structure in unpredictable ways when you pull on a branch. Crumbled moss spread out under it, and a broken mirror is carefully reconstructed underneath the largest tree. As if it is mirroring itself in a broken lake. Sound of water. The distorted nature. Restricted nature. Unfree nature.
DAY 2
Reading. Repeating. Leave. Step out. Find skin against skin. Arm on the back of the excavating figure, rests, and a pen starts writing. Write the text. Again. On the back of the man brushing earth off secrets in the soil. A poem about a forgotten monument. Once great but now forgotten, broken in the sand.
DAY 3
One picks up a brick. The other one picks up earth. Carry. Bit by bit. One by one. Hard soil and soft soil. Red soil and black soil. Bare feet across the hard floor and bare feet sinking into the soft earth. Back and forth. Not too slow, not too fast, but thoughtful and present. They know what they need to do. They carry on. They must go on.
DAY 4
The great wheel further it’s decline. A whale skeleton washed clean on a shoreline, or an old wooden boat with its boards half rotten and sails torn emerges. The satisfaction is immediate. The longing for this image has been in both minds for a very, very long time.
DAY 5
An ironic gold frame box comes to life, becomes a creature on fragile legs. Bambi on ice. A figure fills it with bark. The legs threaten to break. At the same time another figure builds a bonfire, or a new temple, or a tent, with old branches.
DAY 6
Amundsen has set up camp for the night, the storm is howling outside, but the cloth is motionless. Dead. Still. Silent. Then you hear the fire crackle. The bonfire is lit, the dry branches are burning happily. Black smoke colors the roof and the walls, like a burnt-out building. No, wait. It’s only imaginary.
DAY 7
The shrine has crawled back into a shell-like form, protecting its vulnerable inside, a smaller version of itself. The bonfire burns, the mass grave looms in cold moonlight and the wind howls around the corners of a little, red hut sitting alone on a cliff. Two figures walk. Not together. Alone. One by one. The same route. Past the ghosts of earlier actions.
DAY 8
The gallery space collapses. Earthquake. The box rips apart from its strings – its corners hit the ground. The branches tumble and collect in one corner as the red portrait tongues sprout to life, grow long, thin legs and jump out of the sixth dimension into ours. Wobble and walk. Ice melts, the coast crumble, the cold sun does nothing. Order is struggling against chaos, the balance is shifting, it looks like it will all dissolve. But will it…?
DAY 9
The earthquake has subsided, the eschewed dimension descends and rises again as a box, grounded. It’s shape, the light and an empty pedestal inside tells of a presence not there. Branches are tied to the frame, through the frame, break the pattern, brings associations to the bound forest in the other room. It is still order, but organic, strictly organic.
DAY 10
There is only one final image left. A figure resting inside the remains of the great wheel, curled up, with a fossil in his palm. Another figure makes a rope harness on herself. Around the hip, the thighs, the chest. Then she steps into the naked framework of the universe and suspend herself between heaven and earth. The lone, red cabin on the desolate bark-island is half buried and the cold sun has fallen into the sea. She floats in a backwards bend while the storm is howling. Two figures, motionless. One curled together, the other folded outwards. There is no conclusion. The image ends with this.
