This presentation was cancelled due to the unexpected sickness of Karen Kipphoff.
From 19 February to 4th March 2017, BLIND SPOT will meet (for the second time) in BERLIN at HZT/ Universität der Künste Berlin.
The artists involved until now are : Marcio Carvahlo, Carole Nadeau, Trond Lossius, Cecilie Ullerup Schmidt, Karen Kipphoff, Karoline Skuseth, and Nik Haffner. To this group has been added 2 more artists: Ingvild Holm, Farid Fairuz,
This workshop will lead to the next session (and final) period of (performative) work which will take place in Fredrikstad during a whole month residency mid July – mid August 2017. The production/performance will be presented on 14th August 2017 in the Akademi (Norwegian Theatre Academy).
Waiting — Hunting — Shadow — Monster
Field work at Wolletzsee outside Berlin during the workshop proved to be particularly productive. A former hunting ground for the DDR Stasi elite, this field trip produced compelling imagery and sound recordings with rich metaphorical resonances, including the stark contrasts between the peaceful landscape and the violent act of killing that it affords, silence and explosions, hunter and the hunted, surveillance, spying, voyeurism, fencing in and out at the edges and borders between fields and forests, etc.
She is... She is sitting in the sports hall on a bench. She is exhausted after hours of cleaning. They will arrive in a couple of hours, in a bus, from the south. They might have travelled for more than three weeks. She is sitting on the bench and taking of her rubber gloves. She is drawing in her calendar while listening to a podcast about Portuguese cooking. She is drawing small patterns without really giving form to anything. She’s drawing in her calendar. It is the 4th of July 2016. She is soon of on holidays. She is online. She is considering where to go. She is googling travels to Angola and parallel watching a Netflix series about the Colombian mafia. She is lying on the sofa watching the news. A car crashes on the street. She is online, again. She is measuring her shadow: in the morning, at noon, in the early evening. It is summer. She is writing a letter to her grandmother. She is writing an email to her grandmother.
He looks at... He looks at the recorder, checking settings. Is it recording at all channels, as supposed to? No. Shit. Do I have to wade through all hundred and four sub-menues in order to reset this?, he thinks. This is fucking useless. The recorder is really nice when it works, but setting it up is a nightmare. Designed by engineers. Designed by a pedantic technical mind that starts out by systematically listing and then displaying all configuration options that were ever added to the firmware, including the useless features invented in a late Friday afternoon haze. And of course, the one tiny detail missing, the one they never got to, was a simple stupid preset storage. Why would you want that? Five furious minutes later. The LEDs are finally blinking as supposed to. As far as he can tell it is now configured correctly. But the place itself has been deconfigured in the process. The state that he has to bring himself into in order to do recordings that he can engage with later on, is gone. Depending on his mood, the world has more or less colours. Now the light is harsh, and erase the colours, leaving only white and bleak shades of gray and beige. The cables has gotten entangled. Can we please invent wireless electricity? Like now? Thanks. The perception of the place, shadowed by technology and bad-tempered moods.
She looks at... A huge box with holes in it He thinks it is a mountain because of the dust covering it She wanders what’s in the box But he doesn’t care for a mountain is only a mountain Another woman is standing there, she walks a little and then climb the mountain and sit on the dusty box Without warning As soon as she sat, the box mountain strangely and imperceptibly disappeared SHE But after a while she saw that it was still there but more to the right No more dust but papers seemed to be filling it He didn’t even notice it had changed place and had some kind of content He thought it was some kind of new construction , maybe a supermarket he thought Because he wasn’t giving it any attention, so he didn’t notice all the papers The woman who first sat walk again, whistling and went into this without warning
But what she doesn't see... But what she doesn't see is black, pink, green and the dirty leaves of sound floating up from the trashcan where it all began. the startup and its wonderful, wonderful wonderful greasy, greasy, greasy greasy green grey blue white song of gentle insistence. But what she didn't see was herself nor did she see the others nor did she see the city, the trucks, the planes overhead or the worms sliming creeping underneath the newspaper screaming screaming screaming the computer humming humming humming the doors slamming slamming creaking and slamming the dust spreading all over in a grey brown red cloud growing, growing, growing steadily and covering, blanketing coughing away the green leaves. But what she didn't see was flat, square, round, she only saw the stripy, green, dustbrown can, container on the other side of what she thought and din't see. But what she didn't see and did see at once was some pile of melon on an icy frosty cold november day piled by caucasian men who drove thousands of watermelon in old grey brown trucks all the way from georgia to violently smash them on the wide open square of taganskaja station. what she didn't see was berlin the suburb of moscow.
They look at... They look at each other and they didn't knew where to start They were in pairs, they were in Paris They looked at each other and realize how difficult it was to loose the ownership of their own bodies They didn't even look They though they were looking and decided to describe They saw it together They didn't payed attention How awful is to be tricked by your own reflection They looked and they are still looking. I stop looking, because they are looking at me So we can look at this without having the same eyes, is that what you saying? They looked again at each other and hoped somebody would save them from their own wills They had no patient and no wish to keep looking at that perfect white wall They knew all the time, and they never said it out loud They look and by not finding they assumed it existed They looked and looked and looked and looked, until they got sleepy They were dreaming that they have seen it somewhere They forgot what they have seen They were we shortly after one of them left the room The space... The space seems to hide the only thing that makes it visible The space seems to avoid speaking about what we don't see As we proceed without vision The space seems to unlearn us while we think we've seen enough We are at the beginning, The space seems to invite us to be audience although we are on stage, although we keep convincing ourselves that shadows are only in relation to illuminated things The space seems a to unthink, unlearn, unknown, unbelieve, unhunt at all The space seems a hunting cabin, a treat, and then it doesnt, specially after yesterday when i experienced the same cabin in the middle of Alexanderplatz The space seems to bring my eyes closer to myself, it borrows other lenses showing light as negative, like the negative effect in photoshop The space seems to invade other space, and pervert it, because it is obsessed by shaping its own shadow The space seems to be a waiting room, that builds expectations on how much time we can still pretend we are the audience In the end The space seems to lack shadows but the show goes on
Optics, from the concrete meaning — to the metaphorical and open
Space that has been emptied, deserted
Migrant — structure of society — infrastructure
Hunter and hunted
Shadow and light – seen and unseen
Devices and instruments
Waiting — orientation — voyeurism
Waiting — hunting — shadow — monster
Doubt — acceptance
We live in a bow and arrow season era,
current order will break down at some point.
Bow and arrow season as title, direction, pre-apocalyptic,
has tension and suspense, is scar