Why I choose to lie

At the present moment I am inherently unable to write you anything. You as in the reader who's interested in my art practise and my methodology, or in why I choose to make the things I do. Which is what this text is intended to be about. At the present moment theres only repetition on my mind, rhythmical thoughts that keep coming back and then forth. It all depends on were you place the comma. Only repetition on my mind, rhythmical, thoughts that keep coming back and then forth. Slippery and wet, yet clearly there in their undefined forms, materialising them selves as a smile in me, and a remembrance. At the present moment this text is becoming uncomfortably personal. As I repeat it again: rhythmical remembrance and unfocused dewy thoughts. It is rain outside, it has been since Sunday. This information does not bring you anything, as a reader, unless I include what day it is today. From what I am currently willing to share with you, all you will know is that, it is some day after Sunday and therefore also before the next Sunday. But the present moment is mine, to be undefined as a morning after last Sunday.

I am claiming not to give you all of it, yet sharing it anyways. That implies me to be either indecisive or deceiving.

My objects or sculptures are a form of deception. ... a marquette, an abstraction of the form that contains my concept. At the present moment I dare to say: in this relation: I tell lies. And I do. well not exactly, but what I do is related to lying, by the fact that I misrepresent and obscure by simplicity, the obviousness of my concept.

Purposefully I repeat: Deceiving, deception, deceit, misleading, mendacity, duplicity, circumvention, cozenage, equivocation...

Lying gives me a space for creativity, where the limitations of the socially accepted as real, do not influence my possibilities. My possibility’s, the possibility of letting my thoughts repeat them selves, and repeat, and repeat, and repeat, and repeat, until a feeling of satisfaction is reached. Sunday dancing in my mind, to the rhythm of my writing.

At the present moment I wish to clarify a little: I do not tell lies, as in: untrue anecdotes. I install shapes that are freed from truth, as in the action of freeing, not in the standstill of being. The rhythm of the action of writing, right now, at the present moment, is an action of freeing, freeing my concept from the context of truth. As I find the notion of truth to be a restricting presence in life, and do not wish to let myself control by this socio-economic structure, I find myself embracing the idea of a lie. I do not wish to deceive anyone. I wish to emphasise on the restriction, laid upon us by the concept of truth. This should not be taken as me saying I make work, that is fare away from the truth, or overly obscure. Or that I deal with the unreal, the fable or any of that. I deal with what is there. I make simple work, and then I obscure them in these texts that I write, where I investigate the potential thoughts that repeat them selves in me, as the pendant swings back. Related to the one simple starting point of the sculptures. The rhythm of thoughts seems repeatedly lost, as I take the stony-ness out of the stone. The purpose of art is to impart the sensation of things as they are perceived and not as they are known. Knowing something is related to the idea of truth. It restricts us from getting to know something better, or differently, or again.

At the present moment I feel free to let my thoughts fluctuate in and out of focus, with the rhythmical movement of a desire, for standing upside down balancing on my hands. An activity I do not yet master. This desire for the upside down situation, is connected to the memory of Sunday morning that keeps dancing in my lower belly. Not a desire for disruption or balance, or any other readings you could make, in relation to art and methodology. Just a side story that seeps thru in the lines and words accumulating on the paper. Well, call it paper, when in fact I, as most others write on the fictional idea of a paper represented by a white surface bounded by a grey line on the screen of my laptop. Fingers dancing in a monotone rhythm across the keys, with their hollow version of the sound I imagine the type-writer made. Sunday dancing in me, to the rhythm of my typing fingers.

I am writing you this in hope to detour what has been asked of me. We are used to certain parameters and they become restrictions as to how we see, write, make and love. Do you feel that I am jumping from one thing to the next? And at the same time loop back and repeat. Writing about art should not only be a language locked up in a box of ‘how to’. The importance of re-drawing these prescriptions, to stress the meaningfulness of detour and minutiae details, when working on text as well as in form. (everything we count as progress in this world – pharmaceuticals, computing – comes from understanding what happens to very very very very tiny things: atoms, viruses and increments of time.) So even thou I work with a peel slice and cut technique when in the studio with the forms, sculptures and objects, I on the theorising and thinking side of things add, adjust and stray away from the point. Repeat and mislead, deceive with mendacious duplicity, circumvent, equivocate, loop back to the point, and swing out again, like a child on a playground. Theres many detours to one subject. Sometimes we only get to know one and forget about the other. Sometimes they become more empowered when the decisions made are independent from each other- when dependency is not linear or needed but more sought or chosen for.

Yesterday I tied my roommate to a chair with a blue rope. She did not fight much. The rope is bright mid-blue in colour, and about 10 meters of length. Not quit long enough for the purpose. Now it is hanging over the back of the thiel-blue chair upstairs in the green kitchen. I feel it is waiting for something to happen, as it is casually hanging there. But at the present moment I don't yet know what. Maybe it is just waiting for the rain to stop. For the rhythm of fist sized drops so cease and surrender.