Parasites of desire (OFFAL)
Podium Oslo 2018
How Podium sees it, Ida Lennartsson balances private and collective truths in the way she displaces the body, organs and the natural order of fluids. What you imagine to be natural, becomes weirder yet somehow closer to experienced living, encultured forms, bringing the layers of fiction in our repetitive presence into focus.
I am freezing. And the eye I have left throbs, and all the time I try to open my phantom eye. I have the feeling it is still there,
I can sense it just below my scar, if only I could blink it would open up, my phantom eye would let me see what I cannot.
—Marie Darrieussecq, Notre vie dans les forêts, 2017
Far away from wellness and care, Lennartsson’s protagonist (her double, an information-shade) makes-do with prosthesis for these qualities in a dense and fever-light world. In our days, a time where all are individuals enacting accepted patterns of behaviour, similarity is the biggest fear and a carrier of dense truth. The doppelgänger is your death enemy because you are each others nadirs yet strive to occupy the same spot. It is the kind of similarity that evaporates place (the thing/being’s position in space) and time (when it/they is/are present) and threatens your existence.
The nagging feeling is: who needs you if I can have a more ideal version of myself? Where would you keep your meat puppet, your organ-reservoir, in what location? In the quote from Darrieussecq the creature tries to open an organ lost, not able to ascertain her place in the social fabric puzzle. Is she primary, is she living matter? Open your ribs wide, breathe.
The earth sticks to my tailbone, its moving underneath the skin layer, I twist, try to brush it off with my hands. Are these gloves where resistance emerges, or is this sensation… how long will this cold inhabit my bones? There are voids within this form, where my presence keeps poisoning me. I curve and invert, backwards to the beginning. Not to continue forever, drifting, rather cease to have been. Unlocking the dribble of time. These eternal pools below me, my body leaking, can it not stop, the root from growing thicker, attaching itself to these splayed ribs. Hollow earth mode. Dispersed, filtered, re-sown until the presence lets go.
Ragnhild Aamås
Parasites of desire (OFFAL)
Podium Oslo 2018
How Podium sees it, Ida Lennartsson balances private and collective truths in the way she displaces the body, organs and the natural order of fluids. What you imagine to be natural, becomes weirder yet somehow closer to experienced living, encultured forms, bringing the layers of fiction in our repetitive presence into focus.
I am freezing. And the eye I have left throbs, and all the time I try to open my phantom eye. I have the feeling it is still there,
I can sense it just below my scar, if only I could blink it would open up, my phantom eye would let me see what I cannot.
—Marie Darrieussecq, Notre vie dans les forêts, 2017
Far away from wellness and care, Lennartsson’s protagonist (her double, an information-shade) makes-do with prosthesis for these qualities in a dense and fever-light world. In our days, a time where all are individuals enacting accepted patterns of behaviour, similarity is the biggest fear and a carrier of dense truth. The doppelgänger is your death enemy because you are each others nadirs yet strive to occupy the same spot. It is the kind of similarity that evaporates place (the thing/being’s position in space) and time (when it/they is/are present) and threatens your existence.
The nagging feeling is: who needs you if I can have a more ideal version of myself? Where would you keep your meat puppet, your organ-reservoir, in what location? In the quote from Darrieussecq the creature tries to open an organ lost, not able to ascertain her place in the social fabric puzzle. Is she primary, is she living matter? Open your ribs wide, breathe.
The earth sticks to my tailbone, its moving underneath the skin layer, I twist, try to brush it off with my hands. Are these gloves where resistance emerges, or is this sensation… how long will this cold inhabit my bones? There are voids within this form, where my presence keeps poisoning me. I curve and invert, backwards to the beginning. Not to continue forever, drifting, rather cease to have been. Unlocking the dribble of time. These eternal pools below me, my body leaking, can it not stop, the root from growing thicker, attaching itself to these splayed ribs. Hollow earth mode. Dispersed, filtered, re-sown until the presence lets go.
Ragnhild Aamås
