--Index--

A text I wrote for Anna Lorbeer's and Clara O. Kristoffersen's exhibition "Aufschub" at KH7 in Aarhus, July 2025

Four Series of Paintings in Expanded Pictorial Space

Page: Empty. To be covered with letters, Arial 12 Punkt, freestyle, since I am not going to call you for this, which I suppose fits the framework.

Space: A white wall. Its flat relief, some scratches carved into the surface, red and green, small holes, more or less covered with filler compound.

Imagine: a pointed tool in the hand of your choice, you walk up to the wall so closely that you can actually feel its cold core radiating on your face, as-almost-pressing-cheek-on-wall. You point / break open the white seal, swap it for a crack, little crackling-noises, tiny little crackles coming off the wall and crumbling on the concrete floor.

You reveal: A blank space underneath a blank space. White swapped for grey, or red, or some old yellow wallpaper. Whatever. (Whatever's best for the work)

Five of hearts: covered in silver, a lime green bar at the right edge.

Seven of diamonds: hippotamus, covered in a BODY OF SHIT. (Or, non-referentially pictured, a hippotamus covered in its own purest form, a ball of wet flesh.)

Ace of spades: reticulated purple.

Black rectangle: You reveal?

Black rectangle: You reveal?

Bedroom: A mattress like a canvas, covered with grey linen, bales of wool, different colored textiles - sky blue bed sheets imprinted with red and yellow flowers, fabrics whose purpose should have been to soothe a lonely child, but instead they were spread out as color on a painting, gritted by the feet of a young woman, hinting the trace of a late morning dream, or maybe a stage.

Me, zooded. You on that mattress, inviting me with merely your gaze. My breath disrupting the blank so I quit it, instead I spread out my heavy limbs, adapting to the composition, stretching a new motif between two bodies and a blanket.

You reveal: nothing really, and a conclusion: this memory which is so old it slowly fades, becomes holey, a memory whose holes will be more or less covered with details, invented or not. (Whatever's best for you) -> A memory accidently transformed into fiction.

Lucie Gallas