Until the End of the World - installation
solo exhibition "into my garden come"
Every artwork has a story involving a woman, defined by the title and various symbolic details on each piece. I upcycle, restructure and compose with an environmental focus towards reusable waste, used, discarded paper. The shoes (10 items) taken together, are one installation entitled Until The End Of The World, a group of related tales from women, searching for their true self, between dream and reality, between real and unreal. There is a text-poem written by Anna paisiou for the shoes , inspired from them and including all their titles, connecting the women in an endless trip :
A shiver. A flutter in the basil leaves. Then we left in whispers, drifting through secret
doors, smelling of violets and linen.
*
Be my velvet, she wrote on the mirror. Cherry lipstick. Cherry hope. She felt sixteen
again, caught between a kiss and fever. A suitcase by the door.
She pinned the laundry to the line in silence. Morning glory, welcome, she murmured,
her daily prayer worn by use. When the sheets had dried, she folded each with steady
hands and placed them in the bottom drawer. The sky was soft at first, then rippled
—purple, gorgeous— hinting at the approaching storm.
The room held shadows and a leather chair. She stretched her legs along the window
seat. Her laughter rose, bright and brittle. The last time you sent me flowers, she said,
they smelled like dust.
The hill received her like a violent lover. She drank to the beauty of the instant,
dragonflies lifting from her sleeves, their small wings aching to fly.
Puff. Her smoke curled upward. She listened to the cymbals of a quiet day.
She wished on the moon.
She never wore a coat because it felt like drowning. Dress me in feathers, she told the
woman at the shop, paying with coins from three different countries. By morning, she
was already at the station, her hands light as butterflies.
From her to eternity. She started with a broken heel. She ended up in paradise.
*
I think of us. We who crossed and burned, who vanished and emerged. We traveled
forward and inward and even changed our names. We walked through fire, loss, and
doubt, dyed our dresses red.
Sometimes, by a trick of time, we return. We salt the food. We water the basil. We clean
the fridge.
And still, we travel. Until the end of the world. All heels, all wings.
until 11 October at St. Mary´s Church in Frankfurt Oder,
curated by Georgina Magklara
