Cecilie Skov / Piecing Breezes
4 - 25 September, 2020
Arcway Nightlands Connector Jennifer-See Alternate
Liflandsgade 6
2300 København S
Danmark
Organised by: Anna Tydén
Text by: Nanna Friis
Photo credit: Malle Madsen
Language emerges from inside the body, from inside a
mouth, a head, the heart. And so language pulls out
these insides, making them outsides: words or things
for instance, or new beings. And so it crawls out onto
reality, language, that autumn it was hung in a room.
A number of blue outsides, a tight aqua forest. Here it
stands for a moment, doesn’t grow, tells a bit. Surfaces
do that. Dense stories, they move upwards only,
indifferent to the horizon. And so these imprints can be
anything, just like language. They can emerge from an
inside which birthed them like a plastic womb,
congealed them like cocoons. Spoke them with a wet
mouth. What is found on the inside, still unshaped, is
brought into the outer world to be heard. A flexible
alphabet of wax. Partly menacing, partly ridiculous how
everything, no matter how sturdy it seems, certainly
decomposes (a joy for the egos behind anything
meant for infinity). To actually aim for decomposition,
to perceive it as an option rather than a destruction,
because what is no longer visible still exists. Does it
ever show that this particular scent of a neck filled you
up. Some moments are thicker than others, some eyes
open enough for you to rest in them, a whole existence
of invisibility piling up between the pointy lines of
reality. Please enjoy how the world is dispersed among
us as a world, new leaves and words that stay in some
gazes for a while before sloshing out. How cute, this
fate of everything, to alternate between being inner and
outer. Earliest of all: the liquid and its entire warm spirit
before absolute luck throws it into an instant. Who
actually knows if they'd prefer to be water or a
decision? It is said that we rub off: the amount of drops
leaving the inside of a loved one, the amount of
moments where these drops are Your Dream. And so
we share an orbit, becoming poison in the same jaws,
waves and ears amongst each other. Spit out your holes
on your fingertips, here they can wake up and take hold
like greasy messages without eternity. Warm ice, we
swim on.
Text by Nanna Friis