The rule: no rules. Forest spirits. I think I want to stay here. Everything, everything, everything is said. Lost the letters. Pattern, still many rounds. Sense against nonsense. Reason. My art has to be soft and mild, as shrillness overwhelms enchantment. Why glorify what is actually a lie. Big line, small line, trembling line, clear line. Cowboy coffee. And ants everywhere. Big cities. Between the lines. I travel through the country Exotica.
1 -6 Mosquito Net Writings – Media Installation, 2013 – Galerie M Berlin
Machines control movements. Along escalators. Luggage moving. Trains, displays to read, making connections and switching metro lines, escalators and elevators. Safety belts and displays and announcements and meals. The flower corner. The kitsch of the eighties. Hula. The international solidarity. Exotica. The library in the village. Thor Heyerdahl, Hans Hass, Reinhold Messner. In a sailing boat around the world. Across Africa. The South Pacific, the South Pacific. We sit in our dream houses and look out to the sea. Global means to express yourself politically correct, in conversations at home, and even more, when the rain comes and goes. We go snorkeling and eating, but save on money. Global means to buy the food at the health food store and the wine at Aldi. We love each other, and it‘s much too dark. Global means to fly the days to Thailand and cultural obligation program, Green Curry. Global means to have friends all over the world, in Australia, USA and Japan. Indoor[s], in the tropical green house. I, Beachcomber, travel through the country and look for my beach, my lonely island, I want to make a fire under the stars in each shopping mall between here and Shanghai Honolulu. I, resident of an assimilated world, where dolls are made of clothes of lions and elk, on chairs made from tropical wood, gawk around for ever, because this moment, this death nourishes forever. In the tropical green house, the proud inhabitants of the forests, lined up between all that bric-a-brac. Evergreen, waiting for the return. Everything, everything, everything, Reality excursions into the profane. Crash down at any time. Next to me, a green tin wall. And what looks like a protection to the outside, a cough from behind reveals: Here is outside! The forest is not a place of contemplation, rather a place of experiences that is worth thinking about. The forest suggests that all our activities stem from totemic nature. Everything, everything, everything said, lost the letters. Pattern, still many rounds. But do not tell it to a woman: there is no secret! Is this political art? African topics divided by eurocentrism. Is this political art? Deer in the forest divided by brown in the suburbs. Is this political art? Battleships divided by Counterstrike, HIV infected buddhists divided by drugs, etc. And ants everywhere. Everything, everything, everything is said, lost the letters. Pattern, still many rounds. Sense against nonsense, reason. www.crossing-the-line.de
7 – 9 Kontiki Bodhisattva, video 1993, installation 2013 – Galerie Nord Berlin
Mosquito Net Writings, Installation, 2013 – SAL Nakhon Pathom
Crossing The Line – A Video Workshop Performance Installation, 2013 – SAL Nakhon Pathom
Exotika: The attraction of the exotic is proliferating through images, while at the same time it is physically disappearing. What remains is an artificial infinite sunset, staged celebrations which are supposed to glorify a non-defunct, golden past.