Draft translation. The original material is available above.
by Norbert Delman
SOURCE — http://www.nowyteatr.pl/event/kohezja
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>DEFINITION
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>Cohesion — the general name for the phenomenon of resistance offered by physical bodies subjected to division into parts. Its measure is the work required to divide a given body into parts, divided by the surface area created by that division.
Cohesion should not be confused with adhesion, that is, the ability of the surfaces of physical bodies to join together. Although both phenomena originate in various intermolecular interactions, adhesion is a purely surface phenomenon, while cohesion results from forces acting within the body being torn apart or crushed.
http://pl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kohezja_(zjawisko_fizyczne)
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» noun: cohesion
synonyms: cohesion, connection, cohesiveness, coherence, compactness
http://megaslownik.pl/slownik/synonimy_antonimy/7568,kohezja
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Coherence, cohesion — a property of bodies consisting in resistance to their division into parts; it results from interactions between the molecules or atoms of those bodies (chemical bonding forces in crystals, intermolecular interactions in liquids); solids exhibit the greatest coherence, liquids less, while gases almost entirely lack it; one consequence of the occurrence of c. forces is surface tension. (Nowa encyklopedia powszechna PWN, volume 5, first edition, Warsaw 1996).
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The greatest possible cohesion on our planet is possible at absolute zero, that is, -273 degrees Celsius, for no energy or movement exists there; everything is static, motionless and almost unchanging. Under all other conditions, diamond always has the greatest cohesion.
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ACCOUNT
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This is a modest account, very subjective, written in a stream-of-consciousness narrative. Everyone who was there and experienced it will certainly disagree with me that it was as I say, and that is precisely why it was as I say. I consciously write in this form to put these events to creative use immediately and not allow myself to be diminished to the scale of mimesis, into which I do not fit. It was as I describe, in the year A.D. 2013...
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...The Workshop Hall of Nowy Teatr, formerly a vehicle repair hall for MPO
source: warszawa1939.pl/
was just about to transform
design: Dorota Borysiewicz, Andrzej Piłatowski, Andrzej Wyszyński/
http://www.architektura.info/index.php/architektura_polska/z_calej_polski/nowy_teatr_w_warszawie
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changing its appearance and purpose; in fact, it already existed in a different function, but the context of its history and former function was still vividly present
photo: fakt.pl
rubbed into the ground on Madalińskiego Street in Warsaw like oil into its interior floor, the hall still evoked associations rather unrelated to art
photo: warszawawobiektywie.waw.pl/
and yet it was precisely here, at the junction between the building’s two states and functions, that the invention of Kohezja came into focus, not only an exhibition but the phenomenon of the emanation of a certain reality. Moment and subject superimposed on one another in order to capture each other. A place in time and a time of change in the purpose of an architectural object, but also, after all, in the awareness of the people connected with it. It was precisely this awareness and the transformation taking place within it that mattered. Furthermore, cohesion itself as a property of bodies and a physical and metaphysical phenomenon. This will therefore be no dry documentation of an exhibition, but rather an arte-fact, a document of a phenomenon, evidence and research material in social physics, philosophy and other fields, and a context-ual object in Art.
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It began back at the end of 2012. A group of students from the Academy of Fine Arts, from Prof. Mirosław Bałka’s Pracownia Działań Przestrzennych, entered the hall of the former MPO works at 10 Madalińskiego Street in Warsaw.
photo: Tymon Nogalski
/it was a reconnaissance, their first touch of the place and the place’s touch of them, an acquaintance
photo: Tymon Nogalski/
not yet knowing their essential role, they already faced a task not yet consciously recognised at that moment of reconnaissance, but intuited, in deep accord, though perhaps the inability to name it had essential significance. I remember that feeling, indistinct then, of abrasion, friction, tearing, collision, permeating everyone present. And so it happened that, after a short time, they returned to the hall again. This time to speak rather than listen. On their lips was a watchword — cohesion; they sought it inside and beside the building.
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It was the day of the opening. A few minutes past 18:00. I entered the grounds of the Workshop Hall, the car park, the building’s gate. In front of it, a car and a group of people. Exactly as though (as people said at the time)something like this
source: tvp.info
/only somehow.. more peacefully? I do not know, the impression of a “market” blurred but present, only somehow less so and in a different way. A car parked in front of the gate
photo: Mateusz Choróbski
/a Nissan Bluebird. Engine off, doors open, lights on
photo: Mateusz Choróbski
/the driver had gone somewhere. Perhaps he had entered the hall, but not necessarily. In the vehicle, a book
photo: Mateusz Choróbski
/the text of a tragedy by Maurice Maeterlinck entitled The Blue Bird. Echo-(co)-hesion of the name, a collection, a tesseract
photo: Mateusz Choróbski
/a tragedy about the struggle against the “forces of shadow”; the car — a dragon, a war machine harnessed to fight the shadow, lighting the gate with its headlights. Furthermore, the author and driver (Mateusz Choróbski) hidden in shadow. I met him later; he spoke about how he had appeared in that place while hiding in shadow. The cohesion of bodies of various kinds, the semantic coherence of a hyper-textual game. The illuminated gate, of sheet metal, rattling, heavy. I opened it and entered, expecting to see — the hall. Instead.. I saw a black curtain about a metre away; it obscured the view, creating a tunnel. The intensity of the moment, a moment earlier evoked by the concentration of contradictions within one phenomenon — a car ready to drive but without a driver — seemed to be the cause of my heightened attention. Attention needed not to ignore, and in my curiosity about the “hall” overlook, this fabric saturated with “Comme des Garcons 888” perfume
photo: Krzystof Bagiński
/no information, only a curtain, high upwards, far to the sides, sewn through the middle, closed by the act of sewing, weighted with sand, thick, soft and fragrant, black. Fragrant with the scent of the perfume with which, as the author Krzysztof Bagiński revealed on the exhibition map, he had saturated the fabric to recall the host — Krzysztof Warlikowski. This director and head of Nowy Teatr, which was about to begin its full activity in the hall, used this perfume at the time; it was his scent. The host — how important who the host is, a sign of remembrance, a sign of tact and attention to an aspect of the place’s new content, not yet opened. But simultaneously a closed gate, a sesame, a question. A sewn-up, almost motionless curtain and only a barely perceptible scent of the actors’ presence. Only a tunnel, like a keyhole, allowed me to get out, and then I saw the hall full of people and objects
photo: Anna Jochymek
/especially those in white holding trays with little white piles. I followed their trail
photo: Anna Jochymek
/I looked closely. It was sugar.
Photo: Anna Jochymek
/the waiters frequent-ly treated the opening’s guests to it, viewers troubled by their insistence. Viewers entering into interaction with them, a psychological game
photo: Anna Jochymek
/or besieged by the cohe-necessity of their almost wordless pestering
photo: Anna Jochymek
/of things left unsaid and the hex-agony of vigilance wishing to escape the snare, free itself, resist beneath the yoke of the landowners continually finding themselves a new guest
photo: Anna Jochymek
/could they be acting in the host’s service? Undoubtedly potentially, but in practice they were the waiters of the artist
photo: Anna Jochymek
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Ania Jochymek, numbering 36
the hexagon and the number 36 cover the depth of an intimate family history, or within its depth conceal some perhaps crystalline counterpoint. Hex, Greek for six, and gonia, Greek for corner, angle.
photo: Anna Jochymek
/the omnipresence of these gentlemen led me into the depths of the hall, into its quietest corners, the introversion of this post-industrial building. Just like in a labyrinth, I did not know where I was — could this be a blind alley? Before me a wall of shelves, on it a rectangle of books, a fragment of the Library of Babel?
photo: 951
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knocked out of regular awareness, I gather the remnants of scepticism into a whole in this state of a blind angle, corner, wall of books, blind owl seeing every movement, the eye of the master of ceremonies, the demiurge-curator, director of the concept, assemblies, encounters of untouchable books, components of a work rather than a library. A frozen process, the cohe-ticity of hypertextum. A multithreaded narrative, a quasi-image. A background of Polish-German relationships, the intimacy of the distinctness of the author of “NiemcyPolen”, Adam Janisch, intense in its sincerity within the universe of the genius loci of the hero of an odyssey through the reinforced-concrete scenery of shelves. Encounters of titles and plots, relationships-meanings: “...history taking place in time constitutes itself as genesis” (Enzo Paci), about me-the-viewer in a dream, in a daze, about perhaps being the protagonist of a drama, about the director being there and me between the books; I descend a ladder to the ground, see a table, a wardrobe, hear a voice, a radio spot
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=enDiC-4HvUYOpen the source material
36 seconds of insight into the absurdity of the situation. Michał Huszcza prepared a trace of someone, studying its self-satisfied pretentiousness. A shabby interior colliding once again with someone’s history, story, world, the room of someone’s long-ago presence, rubbed into the place, rubbed out between consciousness and a morbid abyss of demons and dream phantoms; Napoleon above the crowd in a steed waves from a 3D reproduction, conspiring/listing narrators on the radio and a tumbr of images of someone’s privacy put on display, “self-advertising perversion”, “the object master of the game”, “like masks absorbing the actors’ identities”; these objects “serve the function of absorbing and stunning the interlocutor (ourselves as subjects of presumed actants)”, “we shall be your favourite disappearing act!” (quoted from “Spisek sztuki” — The Conspiracy of Art — by Jean Baudrillard); the absence of a person who filled/would fill this place with their life, of life at all, only scraps, leftovers of someone’s living reality, brrr, cold! I leave, notice the heating hub
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UyOdbpmA1a8&feature=youtu.beOpen the source material
a found object, untouched by any artist’s intervention, in itself an acoustic reverberation of cohesion, an expression of what I feel, letting the air out of this intense intimacy and daze of uncertainty about whether I am still alive, whether I am experiencing. Perhaps now, at last, I will breathe and begin to see more sharply and describe what I see in a more rational language, as befits a witness. Therefore I ask you for understanding and the boldness not to expect it from me if I am to be authentic evi-dence of cohesion and these events. Did you see a patch of light a moment ago? I noticed it then too; I wanted to listen a little longer, but a moment later I approached it. It was a point called “Cezura”, a gesture by Marta Mroczkowska thus indicating a lock of her hair abandoned on the ground, whipped by the wind and exposed to someone’s very inattention, lack of focus, which Herbert Read in “Sens sztuki” (The Meaning of Art) described as the recipient’s lack of freedom, when the viewer cannot perceive the work, yet it is distinct, like a reflection of sunlight falling through the windows
photo: 951
a patch of light torn from its source, like hair torn from a head, struggling with the unfree noisiness of surroundings full of reverberating sounds. Like in a well. One of them reached me more strongly, sounding a monumental tone, flowing from a small room nearby. I entered: darkness, empty shelves, a little lamp illuminating a washbasin with blue liquid dripping from the tap, and the omnipresent “Ave Maria”
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blue liquid, the tears of the Heavenly Mother, flowing here, not to paradise — paradise in such a place? Perhaps this diva is the 5th element that unites the factory space, shelves, spotlight and blue liquid into a whole? The voice wet the walls,
(to listen to — not watch — here)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qALZRWja55oOpen the source material
(original version coming soon)
a sink like a waterfall,
photo: 951
the tectonics of differences levelling out; fear of levelling out makes me shudder as though before death, a feeling of culmination, an end, constancy, cohesion at a critical point, a perfectly horizontal line settled alone, abandoned. I left. Then I noticed a gate a dozen or so metres in front of me, like the one at the entrance, though not the same, but still — perhaps this really is the story of a viewer in the creator’s cave? A gate full of (de)stained, rubbed-away circles
photo: 951
Sebastian Krok’s “Klimaks” dissolves the wall of time, of traces of content receding into the past, with the controlled movement of a compass the diameter of an elbow, rolled out of a gesture as an expression-image-injury, wounds inflicted on the place. According to the online encyclopaedia wiem, climax is the final, stable stage of plant succession, resulting from equilibrium between biotic factors (vegetation) and abiotic ones (mainly climate and soil). Here it seems to be the moment of abrading this soil with the climate of the author’s presence. Preparing the environment for a new role through an organism with characteristics similar to the one about to inhabit it. Cleansing? Abrasion! Thus I arrive, rolling a circle from one door to a similar one, without a curtain, open, inviting, on the other side of wounds inflicted with solvent and dressed with a bandage of text
photo: 951
/full of suffering and the muted narrative, knowing no understanding from the world, of a hidden and lonely person, somewhere in a corner and shadow, between the text and little windows torn out of it. Weeping flows through the pipes
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Ay_sXehU18Open the source material
and in the machine the voice creaks with the native pain of experiences, ageing, ageing, repetitions, circles, recurring suffering, ones, slaps against the wall, with chalk directed at the wall counting down the future towards the outcome of a crushing collision with inevitable disappearance into breathlessness. The solitude contained here by Marcin Kossakowski of an arch-metaphor of the bodily machine moved by remnants of fluids, of the mystery of inspirations dying out, though so present nearby, yet somewhere behind a wall, or within a wall, on another storey, in another reason, time.. Sadness and regret, compassion, humility, reflection, withdrawal... I leave the cohe-sion of loneliness, searching for people, and hear my name. A siren voice calling me behind the bars
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aL_x5uotn2cOpen the source material
Anna Kasperska’s voice, “Vocativus”, somewhere between empty shelving. A memory of couches, shelves, associations of torture, a passionate, seductive voice, also seductively hidden, and these direct calls. Successive names. Male and female. The names of those expected here..the viewers and me..a viewer. Inviting one to visit, return or move into one of the compartments, be catalogued, joined together. I turn towards the door, bars, barbed wire, a squeezing machine, the door still open, water flea. I leave. Around the corner I find solace, bedding for my own soul, a little house of “white goose feathers”
photo: www.michaldabrowski.com
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Clouds — after all this, clouds soothe my bewilderment. All thanks to Marta Mielcarek, the artist who happened to see her little house here, stuffed with down like a pillow, here at the edge of this zone of hangars, the hidden, intimate side of the hall that I am just leaving, because before me there is space again, here where the intensity of cohesion meets its inoffensive faintness, muted by the crowd and space. In the cohesion of cohesion, one would like to say, there is a room illusorily stuffed with birds’ feathers.
Their trace was a contribution, as if they were commas before such an assembly of them. A connector of white in the windows, of the warm, inverted situation of an everyday winter view. It is also a nest for birds in this (un)natural shelter of theirs from the urban machine, an asylum for bird-viewers. Apparently the door there was left ajar for them. Inside, meanwhile, it is warm and therefore cosy, but somehow muted, as though exposing those who were playing with me-the-viewer
photo: 951
Discovering their secret, I feel regret that this is already the end, that everything is clear and it is already time for sleep, but no. I leave and see the hall with the open chest of its reinforced-concrete arms. And the exhalation of the heating hub at the back of my head turns calm and composure. Now I can describe abundantly, factually, physically. Here where I stood looking like this then in this now, in this throat of cohesion, between its degrees of expression, Marcelina Jarnuszkiewicz’s performance took place. It told of driving away diseases, obsessive compulsions, not stepping on a paving stone described by sound, tone, the don-quixot-ery of disenchanting superstitious rituals, tricks and remedies for unruly, undescribed neurotic manifestations of vitality. Gesticulating and carrying out a series of such neutralisations, the artist brought closer an aspect of cohesion’s healing property as the opposite of psychological disintegration. This action awaits its documentation. Nearby, now that I had emerged from the bowels of the co-hall, I saw remnants, shattered structures; I did not want to touch them yet, and, following a crack in the floor that joined them to something that was not shattered, I arrived at precisely this audiovisual intervention
photo: 951
shelves, half full of balloons with exhalation in this installation entitled “Jak długo potrafisz zatrzymać oddech na wydechu” (“How long can you hold your breath on an exhale”), Norbert Delman rhetorically unasked thus. Sown across a bookcase full of recesses of different sizes, classifications and contents of air
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y5xbe40crvQOpen the source material
air in and around and an exhalation that was already nearing its end after I left that part of the co-hall from which these cabinets were taken, moved and placed here, as though mocking the situ-ation of the apparent exit beyond the hall’s cohesion in this expression of it, echoing into a small compartment for a human breath from the chest
sealed with the signature of destiny, kaf-el-k and human forces of resistance to the system of pores, and all absorbed by a video record intended to authenticate a prescription for discharge, the sig-nature of a thimble. Behind me I felt an accompanying gesture of a signature, “K”,
photo: 951
I remembered such an “i” sprayed on walls in Lublin, but here Karol Kaczorowski used soot. Like a handprint, but too calculated, too outlined, a signal stripped of its nature to be a fully sig-natural reflection of what, through its tracing, wanted to moor in memory, anchor itself, settle, as though the unnameable thirsted for definition so as not to disappear entirely. A person cannot be named; only their endurance provides them with meaning; perhaps only objects, things can be named, not people, although this desire is as alive as a person themselves. The soot scattering with the wind of the wave of viewers brought me closer to “Ślad kurortu” (“Trace of a Resort”)
photo: 951
/where Agnieszka Sobczak aims a Proustian madeleine, her memories, prepared here from rope, varnish, vanilla ice cream and paper
photo: 951
/falling like a rope from the heavens, underground, where it melts beneath the heating hub that binds the whole building together
photo: 951
/into warm ice cream of memories flowing into the service pit, where undercarriages were repaired, once on rubbish trucks and today on perhaps real little machines of forgetting — devaluing ideas and values of the post-repair neo-post-modern. There they sway like buoys on the river of Demo-critus/covered with the pall of the superficiality of all tunnels and sub-grounds
photo: 951
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like prayer beads for a remnant of memory, memory, fleeting meaning and pulse, alternating inhalation and exhalation, the distancing and approach of light in shades of red and blue. Along this track I reach voices carefree in their flight from the next room. Four screens, synchronised in heightening their content, broadcast statements by its inhabitants. This is “S-Tarcie”, not theirs with each other, though perhaps that too, but above all the anatomy of friction, clashes, street fights, aggression that in these protagonists is an eruption of unbridled energy, blind-action, a squandering of young men’s élan of vitality
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QFnh9-7a5nUOpen the source material
asked about a few simple things designed to focus on the friction/clash of s-tarcie
in this way, with blushes of joy on the faces of these speakers, able to speak with impunity about their fascinations and fears, and precisely at this junction of fear and fascination I emerge from that room and pass a window on which the following has been written in printed letters using rubber — “To i Owo” (“This and That”), and instead of the “and” I see a pillar joining the windows, as in the attached image
photo: www.michaldabrowski.com
/what this and that means.. can mean so much in so small a gesture
photo: Anna Bajorek
so much impact force from this phrase framed here in this way acts like an inside-outside mirror, wings with such a sweep of minimum that I see what is the essence, or at least the closeness of the actualim — fear and fascination — these, reconciled into the architecture of a fact or act, show me the spectre of a contemporary artist’s gesture, somewhere between these two, sometimes closer, sometimes less coherently in parts, through a passage into a trans-bowed concert, an airport of semantic take-offs. I turn, looking for an aeroplane, and there it stands: ‘“Untitlet”Dimensions variable . Carboard and tape’, a two-winged craft.(documentation coming soon) How much fits between two cardboard angles fixed with adhesive tape, and how far can one fly in it? At that point I did not yet know exactly, I did not see the fuel — what is fuel in such a situation? And then, in this garden of machines, I heard a crack, in the little room nearby, which was a corridor ending blindly, its door blocked by a monitor transmitting a vibrating glass whipped by furrows of slogans from the family of slang and obscenities mixed with regret and reproach into a cup of bitterness mixed in many percentages with alcohol; in this “Kohezja(Laboratorium)” experiments were conducted on the durability of glass in the form of a drinking glass and the sobriety of eyes released from the yoke of what is forbidden and commanded, under the sign of giving them agency and decision-making power in this shattering gestural domain
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rP1s_baH1-wOpen the source material
the discussion rolled a circle on the forum, returning with redoubled force, cyclically shattering the glass into tiny pieces; only the stem remained, and perhaps a drop at the bottom. Cohesion disenchanted by a pile of incantations. I left somewhat under the influence of this si-into a micro-bomb of rebellion, and, touching with the corners of my eyes the motorbike on which, in my imagination, Tymon Nogalski travelled around the hall with a screech, leaving synthetic tyre tracks on the oily floor to the limits of friction and heat, of critical doubt as to whether the oil covering the hall’s entire floor would catch fire, in this way wishing to cool the heating hub of the atmosphere, I approached the neighbouring shelving, empty again; one could find a place for oneself on the shelves, etc., but not everywhere. There was a metre of shelf booked by Michalina Ludmiła Musielak using a television, fitting perfectly into the obvious place, capable of interesting and integrating anyone who, as far as the eye could reach, might be in the hall. And from everywhere in it, in fact, this little television could be seen, and in it “Pani Krysia”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bcnOUhOwCswOpen the source material
This beautiful elderly person spoke about the Jewish community once richly present in our culture and landscape, about their tragedy. She spoke with feeling, continually moved in turn, never one-sidedly, always inclining towards, never away, continually fluently and ambiguously, as though about everything with feeling. Speaking in this way, she concealed the essence of the matter; it is impossible to determine what she was speaking about, but she displayed a high degree of coherence in it, a veritable research model; vividly present in this imaging, Pani Krysia remembered. After the screening I turned, and before my eyes appeared a tangled clatter of clothes pegs and glue, “Wspinacze” (“Climbers”)
/with which Marcin Bednarczyk climbs through the middle of the space towards the limits of cohesion. It must have been an interesting moment when those wooden springs for hanging laundry no longer climbed/clipped together. Perhaps this de-constructs to nakedness the property of cohesion, which nevertheless has its range, area, field of resistance, a quiet inclination released on the wind like the rumour of a peg’s eye through which one can pass with attention
pict. Dominika Olszowy, Maria Ewa Toboła, Anna Miczko
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meanwhile, as could be seen, it was the size of a needle’s tip, so I moved away towards ‘Untitlet, wooden triangles’ — a vehicle of triangles nailed into a hemisphere
photo: 951
/the triangle as the first geometrical figure, the first plane, the 2nd dimension grown from the first — the line — and tending towards the 3rd, the solid, whose first manifestation may indeed be a hemisphere, though just as strongly a quadrilateral composed of three faces of equilateral triangles; yet a hemisphere also serves excellently as an interdimensional vehicle, a wooden, synthetic skeleton of growth, like the point of the golden ratio of a pyramid, the chamber of sarcophagi in which mummies were so rarely found. One would like to enter, but the walls are like bars, making it impossible to experience this potential. Creative compulsion of matter into obedience, into creating a shape alien to its properties; the material was triangles and still is, for as such, precisely as material, in some novum there so force-fully. Nearby I heard scrubbing, another turn of 180 degrees, a look and nothing. Some rustling rubbed into the space, rubbed together with it into one, coherent and polite, something like scrubbing; an intent gaze makes it possible to capture Justyna Misiuk’s action called “mydło” (“soap”)
http://www.forum.com.pl/oferty/xq9f1ldz/zdjecie.php?idzdjecia=1604267, with which the artist cleaned a tiny fragment of the hall: friction, abrasion, cleaning, an indelible memory of sound in the background, a concrete drone set against the wall, a question of rubbing into memory through metaphors — the mimet-ics of gesture. Then I approached the scattered solid liquid in jelly between two angles of wood
photo: 951
/this “Tota”, the remnant of a gelatin cube, fortunately did not tremble in the shape of a human afterglow of form, for that would have been a painful experience. It broke apart into slime and oozed across the floor, creating a static stain dripping with remnants of juices squeezed from bones, giving off a smell that forced its way with a quiet whisper into every pore, the smell of pulp and the pulverisation to the marrow of the crystalline coherence of a living being’s skeleton. A voice calling for existence to be touched with a respect worthy of the mystery through which anyone can open their mouth at all.
photo: www.michaldabrowski.com
/there cohesion is the coherence of a sky-high intensity of semantics — of the physical, mentally insubordinate material mush that arouses revulsion and involvement at once, fear and fascination: fear on the plane of thought-forms, feelings and reflections, fascination in the instinctive corporeality of drives and aggression. Psycho-metaphysical and psycho-physical friction within ourselves. Only a mass thrown on the ground, of unknown purpose, unpacked from a cube divided in half, and opposite, in the distance, coherent in the shape of its angles, like a house on foreign soil, apparently settled, a cardboard monster takes up oil from the floor of oblivion and raises a semantic flight beyond what one can pin down in imagination. Standing, however, on oil in the head, somewhere behind me I felt someone’s footsteps. Before I could turn, I bumped into myself, who seized me and joined me to himself so that, in equal step, we plunged into the oily mass of airlocked, damp bones. I did not believe it was true, but the run-up needed to kick the ball by the person that other me was speaking about during his presentation before a sizeable group of people contributed to this accident. Quickly shaking myself off, without now shaking off that other self, joined to whom I ran up to the ball standing 5.5 metres from the goal line in the hypothetical sphere. Demonstrating its flight, I showed the distance and difference between the forces of the individual and the mass pressing against one another, as well as the sphere of drama and technology. In a word, the ball fired by drama stopped the attack of the striker of systematisation. A trickle of blood flowed, falling onto the shells of the form. (documentation: http://wyspastan.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2013-02-02T18:25:00-08:00&max-results=7 — description in the previous post) A pure conclusion and a ticket out of this spectacle without becoming a robot, thanks to what, thanks precisely to it. It was a challenge. In addition, the greeting “cohesion of gesture” of an independent hand, separating the fingers of its other hand covered in red paint, announced the land of fravarthi
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCNtQwo49tgOpen the source material later 313 slowly pulled his hand away from the wall, leaving an imprint
and, as a lifeboat, still, already at the after-party, the imprint of a kiss
photo: Marcin Morawicki
/in sound on headphones without a stamp of the foot, in Marcin Morawicki’s sound installation
where the intimacy and reality of the hall of human depth had now entirely fallen out of the bag of forces of resistance, dressing itself in a petticoat and braces
photo: Marcin Morawicki
/in this dis-posi-cons-tance I turned with a smile towards the exit.
I left the exhibition with the feeling that someone had planned it well conceptually, but that the viewers confronted this scenario. Cohesion between them and the artists is a condition of art. The eyes of big brother under the eye of big brothers watched by big brother on the tray of the great one again, etc., so that what remains can no longer be catalogued; the only thing left is to create from it invigoratingly as from ground, as from earth, in the cohesion of coherence with fragmentation, so as neither to solidify nor dissolve into non-being. A feeling of catharsis as a sense of cohesion — a remedy for redundancy. Cohesion — the exhibition’s modus vivendi — always endures and is never fulfilled. Leaving with this feeling and an enlivened memory, I referred in my recollection with respect and appreciation to all the Artists, the exhibition’s Curator Prof. Mirosław Bałka and his assistant Karolina Kubik, and producer Agnieszka Warakomska, the management of Nowy Teatr headed by its director Krzysztof Warlikowski, and everyone who was present and attentive.
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