LISTENING IN LICKANANTAY | Dagmara Wyskiel The desert’s silence would have been infinite if not for the wind. Silence is stillness, and the wind, movement. Complementing each other like being and not being. Its gusts are repetitive. Its violence is transformative. Skeletons of mattresses from some illicit garbage dump are the first images that strike the eyes upon adjusting to the dim interior light. Spirals of rusty wire hide scraps of fabric, tiny remnants of intimacy caught up in the metal. A structure originally created to support the human body, it has become a three dimensional sketch imposingly raised in this small and subtle space, that would appear to be scared by this guest. It seems like the desert wind, with its powerful force, lifted it up only to later get entangled like this. It has become a speaker transmitting sounds of objects activated by the mantra of the air, in its natural and eternal movement. According to the artist, this part of the piece is anecdotal, and yet it introduces us to the rest of the route. A number of still photographs playing on a loop show the song and dance of objects captured unexpectedly, documenting the solitude of life outdoors. A red metallic bird anchored to a post beats its wing against a microphone, with the sound of a tin drum serving as a warning to others in the surrounding area. A number of fences, remains of a grand human effort to divide and own the space, have become percussion instruments, trembling with the rhythm of the wind. A toddler’s tricycle with one wheel lifted, pointing towards the mountains –the tricycle appears to have been destroyed in some accident– adds more drama to the scene. A small zine with words from local folk completes the triptych of the exhibition. Stories from those who know about silence and the wind. It could be considered a random plus that the room only permits entry for up to two people at a time.
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