Glenn Sorensen at Corvi-Mora

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The oil continues ink spread, like dipped in it. Continue into the night, where the world fractures into shadows and shards. It is frustrating that writing about the night always sounds poetic since Sorensen's seem to have done away with anything melliferous, instead something tasting more like nickel. I think it's the green, the color of late-night television thrown onto bad carpet. It is science fiction lighting. Ominous green. Feel like seeing something, then seeing nothing.


See too: Glenn Sorensen at Annet Gelink

Juha Pekka Matias Laakkonen at Corvi-Mora

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Reverence is intoned by vast space, emptiness. Used as moral in cathedrals and power by banks we are made to feel small and thus invest ourselves in its offering. People in large open settings show preference first for seating along the edges, backs against walls, or within small alcoves, whereas seating in the center feels vulnerable. In this way Architecture forces an experience of self-awareness, a shiver of our own mortality. The poetic is often reducible to connections within a system of signifiers that ultimately fail to coalesce - or produce a fissure within - a logical statement, a lapse sort of a lot like the architectural expanse. But then the material conditions of an artist placing his head where the log was, into the gap.