When I look at Ingvild Hovland Kaldal’s large charcoal drawings, I think of words like ‘body’ or ‘earth’. Terms usually associated with the medium, such as ‘sketch’ or ‘representation’, are absent from the room. There are things living within these drawings. If you could stick your hand into them, they would feel like moss or peat, by turns damp and rough, and slightly ticklish, as if a swarm of dandelion seeds were flying over your skin.




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