Out of the Woods
Out of the Woods Roey Hunt | Philip Zwiegers 08.02.13 - 29.02.13
‘Something very, very strange in these old woods. Call it what you want. A darkness, a presence. It takes many forms but... its been out there for as long as anyone can remember’ Sheriff Truman, Twin Peaks S01E03
Bruno Glint’s fifth exhibition aims to bring a presence of the woods into a white cube gallery space. It is easy to hide in the woods but not so much in the Alpha City. Can these beautifully crafted wooden works reveal some secrets of the forest? On a closer inspection of both artists’ work, we see the labour of man upon nature. Roey Hunt’s ‘Blocks’ are unique editions made from various woods sourced from a tree surgeon based in Hayling Island. The wood is shaped, sanded, filled and then preserved with resin before a final coating of lacquer is applied. Zwiegers’ practice revolves around the fusion of wood and metal. His most recent work explores the complementary possibilities and modification of naturally dried and specifically sourced hardwood with low melting alloys. Here we have a collection of objects that move from functional to abstract, useful to ornamental. This show aims to contrast the work of these two makers to find a middle term between them and between the boundaries of craft, design and contemporary art. The gloss of Hunt gleams beside the textural exposure of Zwiegers. This publication marks the closing of Out of the Woods and includes text contributions from Robert Barry, Rosie Farrell, Stephen Hayward, Nicholas Johnson and Maya Tounta .
allotropepress edition 07 (limited to 100 copies) ISSN 2046 - 2859 edited by Keef Winter
Cover: Zwieger’s Corrupted Cannonball resting on Hunt’s Untitled (02) Back Page: Zwieger’s Corrupted Cannonball resting on Hunt’s Untitled (02)
All photographs by Paul Williams of Fragment Photography unless otherwise stated.
iii
iii
v
The owls are not what they seem. “The conspiracy theory,” writes Boris Groys, “is the metaphysics of our time.” The series Twin Peaks represents the explosion of this metaphysics onto the surface of the TV screen; breaking apart the flatness of the TV image and inviting us to explore deeper, further. The secrets behind picket fences. The darkness in the woods. The uncanniness of small-town America. The owls are not what they seem. Functioning like a kind of media-psychosis, febrile with a paranoid semiotics, the series “combines and re-combines the fragments of the visible world in a (futile) hope to find a combination that will offer an insight to the dark, hidden core.”1 I have read that every time a character in the series smokes a yellow-tipped ‘English’ cigarette it is a sign of their impending death. I have read that electric power lines are a means of transport for evil spirits, the inhabitants of the Black Lodge. I have read that the owls are familiars of these same spirits, that the owls are the screen memories of UFO abductees, that the owls are watchers, listeners, the CCTV of the Other Place. And I too have watched. Again and again. Searching for these clues and these fragments, for my own theories and schema and interpretive frameworks. What artist would not dream of such a response to their work? Of an audience so drawn into the innards of the piece as to build their own labyrinths from its intestines, multiplying its mysteries a thousandfold. It catches you like a dream and wraps you in its world and afterwards – like a dream – it invites these awestruck interpretations. This is why Twin Peaks could never really come to an end, could never really reach a sense of closure. We just sort of woke up from it one day at the very pitch of its most nightmarish. I remember, back in the early nineties, when it was first broadcast in the UK. The country was in a kind of fugue. It absorbed the talk of school playgrounds, of office watercoolers. Each new fragment was awaited and subsequently pored over. It was one of the the great works of something now almost lost: TV as event, TV as something with the power to unify (even as it rends) a people in time and space. But it was also the beginning of something which is now much more common: the TV series as very, very long film; of TV as a form of advance promotion for a later – and perhaps somehow more perfect, more complete – incarnation as DVD boxset, a process which reached a kind of zenith with The Wire. Twin Peaks was also TV about TV. One of the many mirrors enfolded in the programme’s narrative is the daytime soap, Invitation to Love, watched by several of the characters. Invitation to Love allowed the writers to ironically reflect and comment upon their own melodramatic excesses. It is said that David Lynch will occasionally deliberately cast bad actors, or actors who are dimly familiar from somewhere we can’t quite place (like Richard Beymer as Benjamin Horne who once played the lead in Robert Wise’s West Side Story, or Peggy Lipton as the demure Norma Jennings who, in a former life, was The Mod Squad’s Julie Barnes). He is an adept at the kind of reality effects that could only possibly function on an audience already weaned on screens.
Groys, B. ‘The World Puzzle’ in Seuls quelques fragments de nous toucheront quelques fragments d’autrui, Chaillou, T. (ed.), Salzburg & Paris: Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac, 2012 1.
But like all the mirrors in Twin Peaks, the TV screen of the daytime soap bears within it the alarming possibility that if we look into it long enough we might see Bob, the evil twin whose maniac smile lurks threateningly close to the surface. This was the goal of the Russian formalist, Viktor Shklovsky: to make us look again at ourselves and our familiar world as suddenly strange and disturbing, as if it were from Mars. The artworks of Philip Zweigers and Roey Hunt are thoroughly imbued with these defamiliarisations and unsettling reversals. For what could be more familiar than a hunk of wood? But in their being exhibited, we are forced to look, to see beyond the semi-conscious recognition-without-seeing of everyday life. And therein something disturbs: a crack in the otherwise too-smooth surface of a timber block, like an opening to a gateway; a sliver of silver bismuth that seems to extrude from the very core of the duramen, like a visitor from another place. This, precisely, is why The X-Files, for all its obvious debt to Twin Peaks, was ultimately a betrayal of the older series. In safely locating the key to its mysteries in the extraterrestrial or obviously supernatural, The X-Files enacted a kind of paradoxical re-territorialisation – the unbearable ‘truth’ is comfortably out there, not in here. But Twin Peaks reminds us that the messages being tracked by Project Blue Book come not from the stars but the woods at the end of the street; that the true horror lies not in some baroque government conspiracy but in a family secret, an everyday story of abuse and denial. It is this aspect of the programme that brings it right to the very heart of the Freudian theory of the uncanny as unhomely, the familiar made strange and unsettling. But if the relation between Twin Peaks and the Unheimlich is by now, two decades after its first broadcast, itself somewhat familiar (if nonetheless strange); another obvious point of contact between the series and psychoanalysis that has received far less attention would touch upon the theory of partial objects. In her essays from the second quarter of the twentieth century, Melanie Klein developed the theory that a child’s earliest relations with the world and with other people are enacted through objects split off from the whole person and invested with a kind of magic, fantastical quality whose inflections will tend to colour the subject’s unconscious fantasy life into adulthood. In Twin Peaks there are several characters that in one way or another become associated with or substituted by body parts and other objects – most obviously, perhaps, The Man From Another Place who at one point identifies himself with Mike’s severed arm, but also Josie Packard who, upon dying, seems to become in some way imprisoned or transferred upon the wooden knob of the night stand drawer in a room at the Great Northern Hotel. Finally, there is the Log Lady who carries around a wooden log which speaks to her and seems to possess some special insight or even foresight, possibly due to its somehow carrying the soul of her dead husband. When looking, then, at the equally enchanted logs and wooden sculptures of Zweigers and Hunt, perhaps we should listen closely. For who knows what spirits may reside within, what secrets they may possess.
ROBERT BARRY
viii
ii
ii
ii
ix
The Cabinet of Curiosities and the Disenchantment of the Modern World. In Wonders and the Order of Nature 1150-1750 Daston and Park seek to reconstruct the pre-Enlightenment mindset by considering the contents and meaning of the cabinet of curiosities. It is an extraordinary world, where anything and everything seem to belong. There are unicorns and griffin’s eggs, works of exquisite craftsmanship, ancient maps and medicinal plants. In short a remarkable mixture of the wonderful and the monstrous, the organic and the technical, the ornamental and the practical. Their book concludes with what historians call the ‘disenchantment’ of the modern world. Empirical scientific knowledge becomes separated from superstition and religious faith, and the kind of experience offered by the cabinet of curiosities retreats from respectable circles to places of low or foolish entertainment: like the circus and the freak show; the Gothick novel and science fiction, or in present day terms perhaps, reality TV and Harry Potter. Compulsive Beauty It is interesting to consider what the Surrealist movement might have made of tabloid culture; for the sensational and the deviant, the démodé and the poetic, were all elements in their attempt to liberate an alternative reality. (Foster 1993) In the case of the poet André Breton there was a clear connection with the cabinet of curiosities. Until the controversial dispersal of his collection in 2002, (he had died in 1966), his small apartment in the Pigalle district of Paris resembled an updated wunderkammer; or more precisely the pre-Enlightenment concept of the wondrous, filtered through Symbolist poetry, Freudian psychology and modernist aesthetics. The mood was set by the Oceanic sculptures. An anthropologist might have commented on their religious or social function, as guarantors of fertility, or military success perhaps. But for Breton, Picasso, and many others, these figures spoke of a repressed primeval consciousness. They were a reminder of how, beneath the civilised veneer, we remain naked apes.
The Vernacular Again it is interesting to recall how the avant-garde cult of the primitive formed a bridge between the different currents within 20th century modernism. While the Surrealists saw the primitive as a gateway to the subconscious, the modernist architects and designers were enamoured with the honesty and fitness for purpose of these so-called ‘vernacular’ artefacts. This is why André Breton’s Oceanic masks and shields would not have looked out of place in an interior by Charlotte Perriand, (who specialised in a kind of rustic modernism), or those great collectors of folk ceramics and textiles-Ray and Charles Eames. Hence the cabinet of curiosities tradition did not necessarily mean the antiquarian ‘clutter’ of say, the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford, and it is perfectly possible to stage the ambiguous and the atavistic within the confines of the white cube. The minimalist Cabinet of Curiosities This was my first reaction to Roey Hunt and Philip Zwiegers’ work in the context of Bruno Glint Gallery. The cabinet of curiosities had entered a minimalist phase. Here was a group of objects that could not be explained away by reference to an artist’s statement, but was rather, a stimulus to interpretation and enquiry. Such questions as: at what stage does the ‘raw’ become the ‘cooked’, to paraphrase Lévi-Strauss (1969); and how are we to categorise objects that are variously ready-mades, sculptures, handicrafts and design? So the work prompted questions and triggered a stream of associations. As when Hunt’s highly polished rounded wooden blocks suggested the stepping-stones in a Zen Garden; or Zwiegers’ upright logs and wooden slabs evoked the totems or fetishes of some long-forgotten nature cult. Then there was the sense in which the objects tapped into a collective consciousness. As ‘magic’ logs and ‘enchanted’ stools they looked as if they had come from the pages of a Brothers Grimm fairy story. Telling Tales With this in mind Hunt and Zwiegers’ work might have a found a place in the 2009 V&A exhibition Telling Tales. Fantasy and Fear in contemporary design. One of the more prominent techniques
was the re-enchantment of the ordinary by questioning norms and ‘making strange’. For instance, Julia Lohmann’s Cow-bench (2005), one of a series of reclining ‘cow forms’- complete with a ‘rib cage’- offered an uncanny reminder of a usually unspoken truth, our civilisation’s dependency on nature. Similarly Tomas Libertiny’s Honeycomb vase, ‘Made by Bees’ (2007) presented a conundrum worthy of Heidegger’s phenomenology and the cabinet of curiosities. Is a vase that cannot contain liquids (having been ‘manufactured’ by 40,000 bees over seven days), a process, a product, a work of man, or a marvel of nature? The Telling Tales show presented the ‘enchanted’ as the dark underbelly of the Enlightenment; a ‘counter tendency’ that goes back at least as far as the Romanticism of the 19th century, and one that has been introduced to successive generations via the magic forests and talking animals of children’s literature. There was certainly a fairy tale element to Hunt and Zwiegers’ work, though none of the overt iconographic references seen in say Tord Boontje’s Garland light for Habitat (2002), perhaps the best known example of what may prove to be a post-minimalist, neo-romantic ‘trend’. By contrast, the enchantment that emanated from the works on show at Bruno Glint Gallery stemmed from what the 18th century poet and gardener Alexander Pope would have called the ‘genius of the place’. The wooden objects not only spoke of Nature -writ large, but the nature of particular localities. In Hunt’s case, the wood gathered from a tree surgeon on Hayling Island. The Power of Making This emphasis on the local, in combination with fastidious workmanship, suggests a further context for Hunt and Zwiegers’ work: as a latter day contribution to the Arts and Crafts Movement, or another phenomenon recently showcased by the V&A: the Power of Making (2011). The title is a reference to the awe-inspiring quality of the hand made, particularly when it seems so contrary to the spirit of the times. As the sociologist Richard Sennett argues in his book The Craftsman (2008): globalisation, new technology and the rise of a service economy have contributed to a great, post-industrial ‘deskilling’, and very few of us now enjoy the sense of purpose and autonomy that comes from the practice of a hard-won craft. Today we are more
likely to be defined by what we casually consume, as opposed to what we diligently produce. Perhaps this is the greatest attraction of Hunt and Zwiegers’ work. They take the lowliest of materials and through meticulous reworking; adding lacquer in Hunt’s case, adding metal in Zwiegers’ case, they achieve precious results. In Zwiegers’ pieces the transformation has alchemical overtones. The metal with which he adorns his slabs of wood is bismuth, long thought to be silver in its rudimentary state. Conclusion. Atavistic Jewellery At the beginning of this essay I likened Hunt and Zwiegers’ work to ‘curiosities’. A better description might be ‘atavistic jewellery’. It is as if these makers had returned to the moment when primitive man first recognised the power and the raw beauty of nature, and instead of refining this quality in line with convention, they have developed an alternative aesthetic using unexpected skills. The result is a reinvention of the enchanted forest that is all the more visceral, haunting and suggestive for not being clichéd. Stephen Hayward
References Loraine Daston and Katharine Park (1998) Wonders and the Order of Nature 1150-1750. Zone Books, New York. Hal Foster (1993) Compulsive Beauty. October Books, Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Martin Heidegger (1968) What is a Thing? Gateway editions, Indiana. Claude Lévi-Strauss (1969) The Raw and the Cooked. Introduction to a science of mythology. I. Penguin Books, Harmondsworth. Richard Sennett (2008) The Craftsman. Allen Lane, London. Gareth Williams (2009) Telling Tales. V&A Publications, London.
ix
i
i
vii
iv & x
Three possible points of analogy on the circumference of a descriptive circle Whatever is in the woods – as in ‘something strange in these old woods’ – is just that, in the woods. Out of the woods everything changes; the strange things out there cannot exist in absentia. Apart from the woods the presence in the woods can only be referred to. Spoken of in vague terms, circumferential description, like ‘this,’ but different… In 1927 Howard Phillips Lovecraft wrote The Colour Out of Space wherein he describes a colour, an alien phosphorescence, borne to earth on a meteor which bears no resemblance to any known colours of the normal spectrum. By way of description, he speaks of ‘new elements, bizarre optical properties, and other things which puzzled men of science are wont to say when faced with the unknown.’ This colour cannot be described it is only ever referred to as ‘the colour,’ it is only by analogy that it is called a colour at all. Lovecraft describes something: a scientific impossibility which is close enough to something familiar that in deviating from what is known becomes monstrous. The only actual colour he ever refers to in the story is grey. Like most horror fiction, The Colour requires a certain imaginative sensitivity from the reader in order to fill the yawning void that opens at the periphery of knowledge and reason – preferably the imagination of those readers with a predilection for the macabre. On at least two occasions, Lovecraft refers to his monstrous dreamworlds as ‘non-Euclidean.’ Prior to the 19th century the adjective ‘Euclidean’ was unnecessary to describe the mathematical system of geometry. Euclid’s ideas seemed so intuitively obvious that no other system for describing physical space had been conceived. In 1919, three years after Einstein published his theory of general relativity a disproof of Euclidean geometry as a description of physical space came in the form of a photograph, in negative, of a solar eclipse. Sir Arthur Eddington published his photograph to illustrate that starlight bends on its way to earth and does not necessarily continue as a line between two points. Lines, and by extension Euclid’s ‘laws’ of physical space, therefore can bend. Euclid gave us an ideal, formal system that
loosely describes our experience of the world but is essentially an abstraction. In reality, forms twist, bend and react to other forms in ways that are infinitely complex. When, travelling on line towards the earth, a meteorite enters the earth’s atmosphere, its outer surface heats to its melting point, which then cools as it descends to the surface of the planet. The resulting crust that is formed is a fusion that does not normally occur as a result of natural geological processes on earth. A natural object that has come from elsewhere in space and whose shape is determined by the particular way it tumbles through space into our atmosphere. These objects which are now within the earth’s atmosphere come out of somewhere else. Their peculiar qualities are evidence of a bend in the normal laws that govern the formation of natural objects – in this case geological – on this planet. Hunt and Zweigers’ work presents evidence of a similar process. Both begin with something from somewhere else: craggy, furrowed and cracked wood whose particular shape was determined by something else of which it was once a part: a tree that grew and interacted with other objects and forces in its local atmosphere. They find or are given these fragments and subject them to meteoric processes of transformation. Hunt wrestles what were once complex organic forms into vaguely Euclidean abstractions, filling cracks in the wood with epoxy resin and polishing them to a kind of reduced, perfected, abstract form and sealing this core with a lacquer crust. The final object is not dissimilar to the structural form of an encrusted meteorite. Likewise Zweigers mixes two materials in a fusion unprecedented by natural processes, grafting wood with low melting metals. Whatever these objects’ origin they are dumb to tell us their histories. Any clues are either lost ‘out there’ or hermetically sealed away by artistic transfiguration. Regard them with rapt confusion, as a prescientific human might have regarded a weird magnetic stone dropped from the stars and stumbled upon underfoot. Nicholas Johnson
vi
vii (image: Keef Winter)
vi
vi
FLICKERING BETWEEN THE INDEXES DRIFTING IN AND OUT OF REAL TIME A JUMBLED GRAMMER OF DESIGN, OF ART, OF CRAFT FLICKERS BETWEEN THE INDEXES ALL THROWN INTO QUESTION THROUGH FORM A DIALECTIC BETWEEN WHAT IS NAMED AND WHAT IS UNNAMED AS IF ADVANCING FROM MEDIEVAL TIMES WHERE CRAFT IS MADE BY THOSE WHO REMAIN ABSENT FROM THE WORK HOWEVER GRAND IT MIGHT BE, STONES MASONS OR OTHERWISE WHAT I KNOW OF IT, IS THAT IT IS QUITE ELUSIVE SO FORWARD YOURSELF LIKE A JOURNEYMAN OFFSET ANY KIND OF NEED FOR A MOMENT AS THESE THINGS, THEY’VE GOT CONSCIOUS SLIPPAGE TRACING ANGULAR EDGES THAT SOFTEN ON PASSING THE LANGUID PACE OF OUT THERE COMES IN THIS DIALECTIC, THAT CONTRADICTION, THAT’S WHATS TURNED US INWARD WISHING TO SEE THE WHOLE SCENE, YET BEING DENIED THESE POTENTIALLY ANIMATE INCARNATIONS MAY IN TIME PRIVILEGE ALLEGORICAL CONTENT OVER UTILITY THE SLIPPAGE BETWEEN THE PROSAIC FUNCTION OF THESE OBJECTS AND THEIR POETIC FORM IN THIS SPACE GLOSS AND TEXTUAL EXPOSURE ARE INDICATED BY THE FLOW THE FLOW OF A RIVER, LIQUIDS, CHEMICAL MOLTEN TO MELD LUMPS, YOU SAY LUMPS, YES I WOULD SAY A POLISHED MASS A SPATIAL NON TERRITORY A RIM, AGLOW WITH AMBER TRACES EXQUISITELY RENDERED AND BEGUILING IN THEIR APPEARANCE WITHOUT EVIDENCE, OR PALIMPSESTICAL LAYERING SEEKING, SEEKING AN ARTIFICIALITY WITHIN IT’S HYDROCARBON SECRETION THERE ARE NO DETAILS THAT ELUDE THE CASUAL VISITOR TO THE WOODS NATURE DOESN’T EXIST THAT SLIPPERY MOMENT ROTATING AROUND IT’S OWN PROMISE WHERE ALL EVAPORATES INTO THE TWILIGHT ROSIE FARRELL
v & vi
Variations on wood An imaginary landscape of the woods Out of the Woods contains nothing more and nothing less than what it takes to hold the imaginary space of a forest together. Wooden blocks feature scattered within the white cube gallery space, arranged on pedestals, hanging on walls and laying on the ground, emulating in their erratic arrangement the chaotic geometry of a forest. A bestrewn floor plan is matched with an implied vertical landscape comprised of pedestals and works that together make up suggestions of trees. Resting on supports that echo their width, works and pedestals appear as mutual continuations, like memory vestiges unstrung and slowly effacing. The sculptures, notably wooden but having undergone treatment retain only a half-presence of the woods while their pedestals keel to a state of near oblivion. Beyond the works’ common employment of wood, which allows for a seemingly inconspicuous juxtaposition, Hunt’s blocks and Zwiegers’ sculptures conceal latent tensions. Of these, first and foremost is a different metaphorical attitude towards the woods. Hunt’s blocks: large, rounded and polished, gleam against the unkempt messiness of Zwiegers’ moss-covered alloy mutations. Non-figurative, non-gestural, unconcerned with referencing, Hunt’s blocks carry an enigmatic conviction of self-containment reminiscent of Donald Judd’s specific objects1. Having endured extensive treatment; their swathing lacquer finish manifests an obvious transfiguration as having taken place: a domestication removing the works from the context of the forest and taking them into a realm of specificity. Zwiegers’ sculptures on the other hand appear definitively divisible, wood and metal having retained an appearance of being separable; the transmutations that created them seeming wholly reversible. Like assemblages, they pay homage to their material components, resting actively upon the associations these bare. Wood becomes a stand-in for the woods or nature and metal becomes a proxy of human intervention. As such, each work becomes a relative exploration into ‘the complimentary possibilities and modification’ that result from combining wood and metal ‘bringing man and nature together.’ 2 The melted alloys, now dry and solid, retain the appearance of liquid, inherently amorphous and endlessly malleable, yet nonetheless defined and delimited through their interaction with wood. Little does the human touch feature; what’s most impressing is a sense of surfacing a predefined relationship. Metal, unaffected by imposed utilities, becomes a force in itself, bearing a characteristically psychological quality. Originally amorphous like an unrealised impulse, it takes form as filling, covering, moulding or imprinting, evoking a metaphor of interplay between a preformed object (a natural object) and a 1. Judd coined the term specific objects in order to capture the quality of independent objecthood achieved by artworks which although three-dimensional, did not properly fall under the category of sculpture. Characterized by an appearance of indivisibility (having no visible parts or having ‘parts’ united by a gestalt) more akin to painting’s pictorial unity than sculpture’s gestural divisibility, these objects implicitly defied the traditional arrangement of art categories. Hence, Judd saw in them a potential for rebellion envisioning specificity as a realm of much broader metaphorical possibility, disregarding the canons of medium-specificity and growing a radically more inclusive sensibility. Judd, Donald. (1986) “Complete Writings, 1975-1986” Eindhoven, NL: Van Abbemuseum. 2. Philip Zwiegers, ‘personal statement’ on website’ http://www.zwiegers.com/#!bio/c10fk
material with capacity for endless reformation. Through this interplay, Zwiegers generates hybrid objects that attest to the possibilities of combining the natural with the manmade thereby disregarding the common antagonism forced upon the two categories. Appearing in a series of symbiotic relationships, equally transformed, the natural and the artificial become intertwined.
A false hierarchy of high and low A similar erosion of boundaries between high and low art or art and craft, which art critics and artists have for decades now embraced enables us to disregard the categorical differences that set Hunt’s blocks and Zwiegers’ sculptures apart and regard the two alike. The art object’s obvious commodification has congealed in public consciousness since the 60s and further assumptions concerning the nature of art and craft based on such distinctions have proven limited. Media hierarchy on the other hand has seen a clear demise in the collapse of media-specificity. The coining of the post-medium condition, theoretically concretised through Rosalind Krauss’s A Voyage on the North Sea3, devastated the idealistic aspirations of the previous generation and instilled a cynical attitude towards ‘medium purity’. Hence, these distinctions have ceased to carry weight. Although the labels of design and art still reflect distinct market conditions, design products and artworks are capable of occupying either context. Their definition has become a question of presentation and appropriation. Reflecting this transformation, the works in the exhibition challenge the assumptions associated with the categories of craft, design and art, complicating further any expectations lodged therewith. Hunt’s blocks emanate an atmosphere of pre-existence and thus a seemingly misplaced artistic aura of self-sufficiency while they are in fact designed as products. Zwiegers’ sculptures appear far less self-contained, bearing far more ornamental and referential qualities than their neighbouring blocks. With this interesting subversion of expectations, also then a paradox: a design product seemingly undefined by function and a sculpture that is almost subservient to the action that generated it (as well as the actions it generates: the rotting of the moss, the demise of the wood and so on); the exhibition frames and questions persisting prejudices about design and art. It prioritises their fictional capacities and altogether avoids any formal manifestations of a categorical distinction and yet it does implicitly allow for the unfolding of antagonism.
MAYA TOUNTA
3. Krauss, Rosalind. A Voyage on the North Sea: Art in the Age of the Post-Medium Condition. London: Thames & Hudson, 2000
View into exhibition (photo: Iria Lopez)
i. Philip Zwiegers, Meteorite Squared, selected wood, bismuth, 2012 ii. Philip Zwiegers, Untitled, selected wood, bismuth, 2012 iii. Roey Hunt, Untitled (01), selected wood, resin, lacquer, 2012 iv. Philip Zwiegers, Corrupted Cannonball, selected wood, 2012 v. Roey Hunt, Untitled (02), selected wood, resin, lacquer, 2012 vi. Roey Hunt, Untitled (03), selected wood, resin, lacquer, 2012 vii. Philip Zwiegers, Silver-crowned Wattle Lug, selected wood, 2012 viii. Roey Hunt, Untitled (04), selected wood, resin, lacquer, 2012 ix. Philip Zwiegers, Eye Contact, selected wood, bismuth, 2012 x. Roey Hunt, Untitled (05), selected wood, resin, lacquer, 2012
allotrope press ISSN 2046 -2859