I am h- (a) -ere

Reykjavík, February 3, 2021

To cease, to be, to sprint, to see, to summon, to stagnate. Being to shed, to sham, to steal to remember to love to eat. To slash, to stretch, to sew, to splash, to color. To caress, to birth to drink, to slumber.  To trace and tear, to argue and fuck and fizz and run and guard and go. Consume to bleed to shred and fetch. To rouse and listen and sparkle and whine. To trim and tailor to touch and talk, to lick, to look, to laugh. To locate, to listen, SILENCE and speak. To cancel and gag and hush and muffle and shush and forgive to fight, to release, to stir and heal, to open your eyes and rise.

I walk onto an icy pond and lie on my back. I gaze up at the sky, at the clouds passing by. I am made aware of the wind as it creeps up my nostrils, the scent is fresh alas bitter, and the frost reminds me of my youth. I close my eyes, I’m buried by the ice.

I’m in the water, in the bathtub, a candle is lit and I’m wrapped in heat. There is silence. No one´s here, no brawl. Upon open eyes I see a den. I have black soil on my hands and under my nails, my hair is dirty and red with clay. I flicker my eyes shut, in darkness I’m crystal clean as the moon is lying down on the frozen groundand the time that passes by and what happened yesterday. My hands are brown with mold, it’s cold and I cough and splash water over the canvas. Time is a painting.

With effort bleeds and each act leaves pebbles.The moment writes footprints, like a trail of bread crumbs in the woods. The material I am sewing together is the moon that is lying down on the ground and the hot water in the bathtub, the den I am digging, the scurrying clouds sailing by, the tracks in the sand, the red clay and the black soil under my nails.


I have nothing to lose because everything is now and I am h- (a) -ere.

If I was a rabbit

Reykjavík, March 12, 2014

In front of me I see a hole. I reach my fingers out, sniff into the air and crawl into the darkness. My body becomes one with the void, its boundaries dissolve. My surrounding is illuminated. The unknown. Discovery, contradiction and the unexplained is what I face. My worldview is revolutionized.

Concept art is dead. We are moving into a different level of consciousness and there, art will draw its first breath. So forth it has laid dormant in its mother ́s womb, preparing like an embryo. Now it will be set free.

First it needs a complete fall. Purification. Only then can it lower its guard, stop burying itself in its designated corners and galleries of aridity. There will be no need for dogs or cheerleaders. No soldiers will guard it and glorify it. Art historians will merely serve as entertainers. They write no law. There is no law.

Triangles collapse, circles multiply. Boxes split, lines curl up. Art will not have to defend or justify itself. Neither will truths exist.

Science is built on sand, and magic empowers the world anew. We could celebrate the fact that we are no longer burned at the stake. Then again we should ask if it actually suggests that we have lost sight of our role. Artists are modern sorcerers. We brew poisons. We enchant the world, affect our environment and its functions. It’s a game of psychology where our own convictions are materialized in colors, symbols and movement and then directed at the cosmic intelligence in order to affect change to open up new doorways, paths and opportunities.

If there is a difference between modern art and magic, it mostly manifests in that magic has designated objectives and its symbols generally have a given meaning, but this is not necessarily the case in modern art as the artist seeks new symbols, movements and colors their work.

When different individuals view an artwork their consciousness is unified into a single body, although their interpretations differ. This difference of experience is essential and we should not try and eradicate it with explanations. The artwork must stand and fall by itself. Just like in magic, the initial output should be solid enough to serve its purpose regardless of how the environment reacts to it.

The body constitutes our existence in the world. All bodies unite! The era that saw only the opposites of right and wrong has passed. And still, postmodernism did not mark the end of history. The meltdown of concept art marks the end of the world as we know it. Mark my words: this is the rise of a truly new perspective.