Stance I Linear Narratives
BERG Contemporary welcomes you to a new exhibition, stance I linear narratives, which aims to shed light on the various methodologies of line-drawing.
Works by: Áslaug Íris Katrín Friðjónsdóttir, Hanna Dís Whitehead, Haraldur Jónsson, Finnbogi Pétursson, Páll Haukur and Sirra Sigrún Sigurðardóttir.
When a child receives a color or pencil in hand for the first time, it immediately recognizes the value of the gift it has been given. It‘s a magic wand and alters one‘s life, an intermediate between the child and the depth of its soul, between it and the depths of the mind, between it and the world, the unsaid and the unspeakable, stillness and silence. With the assistance of color and the pencil, the child finds the street leading towards the wells of mystery. Color in color´s hand, which guardians try and tame for a while and never manages to be contained throughout life itself. The child is also aware that in its palm rests a hot rod.
See a child coloring intensely, fill a plane, hardly leaving a spot.
This power that it utilizes for the work can only be seen there.
A hot rod. An auxiliary.
A lover. -friend. Companion.
A judge. Ventriloquist. A parrot. Shadow. An analyst. Secretary. A shadow friend in a shady system. An afterlife. – – Oh! There she flies over the city, the mirror-goddess that holds the truthdrops and drops of deceit in tiny little glasses that sometimes break and cut the sky. – – A listener. Right hand. Left. A deacon. Silent lost jabbering singer. A lifeline. New umbilical cord with or without commitments, i have no idea. The longest and fattest wad.
But the line isn‘t just life-long and possibly connects to every innumerable line of the universe. On a direct endless road, dot a connects dot b. And by drawing or chalking outside while the outdoor air grips the hand, one‘s line gains freedom that never leaves you no matter what else might. The line was, is, and will remain free.
I think it‘s unnecessary to list any drawing tools – that can be seen here in the exhibition – but still, I will, for the sake of formality and an inclination towards enumeration: marker, watercolor, stitch, lead, blood, wire, cord, invisibility, drops. The trees draw their own lines with an impeccable balancing act/art. The child gains a sword that it can hurt with, charge with, defend itself with, talk to, listen to, and forsake all context. A hot rod. Cord. Sometimes the drawing is done for God, a friend, nobody, mother, one‘s self, needs, power, screams, obsessions, frenzy, that inexplicable search (for nothing maybe).
In a domain such as mine, beauty makes me free.
If you focus your senses you could read my secrets between the lines. When the birch trees over-scribble their sketches become witches-brooms. P.s. Don´t forget tattoos and eyes-shadows.