Tucked away, deep in the cerebrum and safely surrounded by walls and tunnels of brain tissue, two amygdalae brood in the dark. The name of these clustered packs of neurons is derived from the Greek amygdale, meaning almond, and thus reveals their shape. These two little almonds play a pivotal role in psychic life — they are generally associated with the darker side of emotional life and take on a significant part in the production of anxiety, sadness, and aggression. Yet, they tend to produce happiness and the feeling of reward as well. Whimsical in their function, they give a hand in the construction of desire and help make decisions. They assist in the production of memory and emotional learning and flare in cases of PTSD. Political orientation is said to be shaped by one’s almonds, too. But most of all, they allow one to remember oneself. They make sure that one remembers that yesterday’s thoughts were actually theirs — that the I is an I, which makes a self.
An ergonomic chair, a desk turned over, a stack of papers, and an archive box are some of the figures that constitute Pearch’s unruly landscape of petrified workers, of labor, storage, and grind. They are the ruins from which things grow — old modernist symbols that form the humus for non-human growth. Cacti and mushrooms grow stubbornly, while lemons repose. They form the place where almonds are lost and then found anew — where one falls in and out of the containment and control of psychic life, where the scenography of psychopolitics becomes an archeological scene of abandonment and decay that nourishes a renewed, yet still wonky life. Where the I becomes another, born of Thames mud. Where empty containers float against a monochrome ocean blue — the shell that constitutes seafare and trade, empty and lost at sea, the containment of life itself, gone. Where in the midst of this entropic soup a pigeon looks at itself in the mirror, and a mouse plays dead. Where from an almond the I sprouts.
– Tom Engels
For his first solo-presentation in Brussels, the British artist Hamish Pearch develops an in situ installation at front. Departing from the specifics of the space — being simultaneously a storefront, a diorama, and a container — Pearch amplifies and transforms these qualities into a sculptural proposition. Speculating on the hybrid co-existence of mankind, industry, and seafare, a poetic yet uncanny aggregation of containers and human faces covered in Thames mud “stares back” at passersby. Containers are recast as theatrical scaffolding, faces transfigure into commodity.
I'm good because I feel good
Contemporary Sculpture Fulmer
I'm good because I feel good. I feel good because I am good. My mother loves me because I am good. But if my mother doesn’t love me I feel bad. I feel bad because she does not love me. I am bad because I am bad. I am bad because she does not love me. She does not love me because I am bad.
Launch Pad LaB
Head Above Water
Manifesta 13 Parallèles du Sud
They sit huddled by the water’s edge, a subdued gathering of orange, green, magenta, blue. As the rising light glances over their reinforced steel shells, stray shadows catch at the corrugated sides, fooled by the illusion of depth. Nothing penetrates. From the sky, they are military decorations stitched across a broad grey chest.
They are being held in a marginal place, awaiting allocation. This place has a different geometry to the rest of the coast. It is functional and deliberate, comprised of careful incisions cut into the land like the inner workings of a complex lock, and a thin jetty which runs alongside, rationalising the jagged coast into a single hinged line.
Marseille’s Fos Port is a circuit board, alive with discreet intention. By day, the arriving boats jostle like eager suitors as a line of sentinel cranes pivot and bow over the concrete, shuffling units like tarot cards. The air is filled with industrial noises and the smell of petrol and salt. Every movement is dictated from a distance. By night, the mechanical dance continues. Sunshine is replaced by harsh fluorescence and torchlight. Security cameras twitch at fleeting movements as guards patrol the perimeter. Under the toxic buzz of tungsten lamps, goods are unloaded from lorries, held in stasis, then placed on a carousel and passed on to the waiting boats.
This place possesses a unique psychic energy. As a site of storage and transmission, every passing object, idea and face leaves an impression. They pool in the gutters and bloom out of the concrete, merging with the industrial landscape to form compound identities, so that the place itself, filled with so much fluctuating and fragmented matter, constitutes an altered state.
Despite the implied impregnability of steel and concrete, the site is revealed to be mostly water and therefore mutable. As a result, these impressions have a subjective quality to them. Vague images swim into focus: averted eyes, a cluster of cells, a forming wave. Ideas of what could be true, or might have been intended. Content, provenance and destination remain obscure.
Even the units themselves, each as defined and opaque as the back of a head, melt into a single, convergent mass as they are held together in this nowhere place. Their colourful stacks stretch into long, orgiastic ribbons of possible identity, pollinated by the atmosphere. Their resolute sides morph into fertile sites for projection and extrapolation as the irrepressible ocean swells beneath. - Claudia Paterson
This is a show about the edge of a night city. How things get built, how things get sold. All things have their time, peaks of activity and then the long wait for their own sad slump. The landscape turns to real estate, speculative development turns viral and things need to be put places. A mass of objects will come back to us. Stargazing is interrupted by a security torch, moonlight can’t compete. The guard dogs on the loose and it can smell your stinking fear. In this room there is a family trip, someone dreaming of a petrol station, thinking architecture, blank newspapers, empty containers, obsolete carousels forever looping, exponential growth, dying daisies, security-guard torches, pyrotechnics on the edge of an island, moonlight blue, everywhere and everything, nowhere and nothing. The container is an architectural site of things and thoughts, real and imagined objects. Most of these things are asleep; stuck in a still-life. Stuck on an island. Aside from the river of concrete that’s rolled over by people on their way to different places, this place is surrounded by an ocean of mud. From whichever direction look, it's all you can see.
North – ocean of mud North by east – ocean of mud North east by north – ocean of mud North east by east – ocean of mud East by north – ocean of mud East – ocean of mud East by south – ocean of mud South east by east – ocean of mud South east by south – ocean of mud South by east – ocean of mud South – ocean of mud South by west – ocean of mud South west by south – ocean of mud South west by west – ocean of mud West by south – ocean of mud West – ocean of mud West by north – ocean of mud North west by west – ocean of mud Northwest by north – ocean of mud