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Every Bacher work is its tombstone, the thing which represents its end, the last person remembering their name.
The framing is contextually ambiguous and stripped of their time and negated by the remoteness of their handling a viewers attempts to position themselves in relation to the subjects feels instead their meaning transpire and fade. The small facts make them mean less, caroming off the possibility of understanding. A hallucination of connection, of information adrift from meaning.
See too: Lutz Bacher at Daniel Buchloz
