Texts

THESE PSEUDO-CATS ARE SUCH PERFECT IMITATIONS

13.10-12.11.2017

Pregnant women often dream of kittens.

On the balcony.

It takes seven seconds for the frost to go through my wet hair and into my brain.

The rewarding activity has just been performed.

For some, the euphoria translates into aggressive playfulness.

Who doesn’t want to travel to other realms and learn to use psychic powers?

 

Text by Anna Granqvist:

In her first solo exhibition at KRETS, Malmö-based artist Ingvild Hovland Kaldal continues her delving into the psyche and subconscious of the human mind. As in many of her more recent works, she explores the in-between spaces of psychology and perception; the transient gaps bordering dream and reality, idea and representation, abstract and concrete, consciousness and subconscious, through an automatic working method traditionally tied to concepts like intuition, obsession and chaos.

 

Ingvild Hovland Kaldal (b. 1985) graduated from Malmö Art Academy in 2015. Working across several disciplines she addresses how energy can be transformed into physical form, and how memory to a large extent incarnates as a bodily experience filtered through and stored in our bones, flesh, and organs. She often mediates what appears to be on the verge between the physical and spiritual; an intuitive and poetic flux not devoid of a humorous and absurdist twist. In drawing, sculpture, video and photography she has, over the past years, dealt with a subjective experience of spiritual emergence, while at the same time being influenced by the documented praxis of predecessors who have explored the aesthetic and visual outcome of a spiritual or induced high. Prominent among these are the texts and drawings of Henri Michaux concerning mescalin, and Carlos Castaneda’s studies on lucid dreaming, both raising questions about the human body and mind in its ambiguous states. How does the dominant structures, preconceptions and speed of our times impact our relation to the surrounding world? When information is constantly at our fingertips, do we need to turn to the irrational and unknown to make sense of it all?

 

“Should I perhaps add this? I keep seeing cats on the high branches of the trees in my garden even when there are none there. Sometimes pigeons. More than once I have had to pick up my binoculars – these pseudo-cats are such perfect imitations!”

– Henri Michaux, Miserable Miracle

SO BUSY BEING FREE

Text by Inger Wold Lund

If you look up leisure in a dictionary it will give you examples of periods when you might encounter free and unrestricted time.

 

She looked forward to retirement and a life of leisure.

 

Most evenings he had the leisure in which to follow his interests.

 

In Kaldal's work this freedom takes an uncanny turn. An oyster is smoking a bone, like some would smoke a joint. Metallic sculptures are reclining on white plastic chairs, like if on vacation. The same sort of chairs is said to exist in higher numbers than there are human beings walking on Earth. Imagine if we were all to sit down at the same time, in one coordinated action of rest, this would be the chair of choice. Every single one of us could place our butts on cheap plastic. Some of the plastic turned light grey from days outside. None of the plastic disappearing in our lifetime. Or in the lifetime of anyone that will remember us.

 

When entering Kaldal's master exhibition, So Busy Being Free, you will find yourself walking through a short hallway where beach towels lean against the walls. The towels are dipped in concrete, before wrung and strung. They are so stiff that they could stand by themselves if you let them. Like the leftover towel in the shower of a school gym. Or the towel that ends up never leaving the beach. Never going home. At the end of this hallway you find a gate made of roughly welded steel.

 

From outside the gate you can look in through holes and tears in the metal. But only when you fully enter, walking around the gate rather than through it, can you completely take this dystopian landscape in closer sight.

 

On the inside objects figure like relics from scenes we are all familiar with. Next to the objects you find gigantic drawings made with coal. Coal ­ the out burned remnants of trees ­ is here used to draw up new landscapes. Similar to the sculptures, in these drawings no trace of bright color can be found. Here there is only an infinite grayscale, picturing human beings with sunglasses, abstractions of birds and one single monkey staring back at you when you look at it. In Kaldal's work, like in objects washed ashore on beaches, brightness seems like something belonging to the past.

 

BLOD SOM SKUGGOR I VATTEN

Text by Ingvild Hovland Kaldal

“Psykosen är det innersta upproret. I psykosen tydligörs: i glaskupan som människan är innesluten i, liksom fostret i sin hinna, rör sig de okända rovgiriga fiskvarelserna.” *

 

En förvirrad fågel flyger rakt in i ett fönster som inte kan öppnas. Handtagen är bortskruvade och persienerna går inte att dra upp. I början gick allting så långsamt. Handen som jag lyfte framför ansiktet, hängde kvar i luften som en lång exponering. Det fans ingen tid till att sova eller äta. Tankarna var som fastklistrade på utsidan av min kropp. En kropp som minns smärtorna efter en födsel. I drömmen var det bara jag som förstod, som såg vad som pågick. Det fanns så många koder och signaler men inga meddelanden att tyda.

 

Mitt rum ligger längst in i sjukhuskorridoren. Den blinda damen lyckas alltid gripa tag i min hand när jag försöker gå förbi. Hon är mycket paranoid. Jag tecknar två porträtt av henne. Ett som hon behåller själv som hon kan visa upp för vårdarna, som ett bevis på att hon faktisk finns.

 

På avdelningen finns tavlor gjorda av blommiga tyger. Nederst i de högra hörnen på tavlorna hade någon med skakig handstil skrivit dit titlar med en blyertspenna.

 

Jag var övertygad om att det var jag som skrivit titlarna. Det kanske kan jämföras med hur jag, även om jag inte minns att jag gjorde alla teckningar, är övertygad om att det är mina bilder.

Namnet på utställningen är hämtat från en av dessa taveltitlar.

 

* Birgitta Trotzig, Den gömda trädgården, 1993

 

 

 

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