Der Boden auf dem wir stehen

Im Ausstellungssateliten vor der Schlossallee, im Keinraum gibt es was Neues zu sehen. Eine Installation von Klarissa Flückiger

Materialien: Hirnholz, Glaskaraffe, Holzstaub, Text auf Holz

I don’t start with a question. The ground is shaking. Broken glass between my fingers. Drip, drip, drip. A shoe with a hole is useless, I said. I know who will wear them, she said. Broken gift. Trashed by walking on clean streets. Toes touching grass and mud. Stone and wood. Shards of glass crawling under the toenails. Cuts their path from fingers and toes through the body. Doesn’t matter. Zzzzzz-z! Did you pick up the thing from the post office? Zzzzzzz-! Did you check your plants, your bank account? Zzzzzz-z! Hurry up; there are millions of videos you have to watch! The ground is shaking. Deep-sea creatures under your blanket. Islands you can’t stand on, people who don’t exist. Barefoot on the floor of pitch. Inhaling the dust of past existence.