BEING IS BEING USED TO BEING BLURRED

Kristian Skylstad & Stian Gabrielsen

Galleri Premiss i Bergen må tydeligvis ha overfallt en av soldatene i det lokale buekorpset, rappet stortrommen hans og så slått det bevisstløse barnehodet gjennom trommeskinnet, det ryktes nemlig at det i kveld – dersom ikke alt bare regner bort – er duket for utstilling med de to hovedstadskunstnerne Kristian Skylstad og Stian Gabrielsen, som akkurat gikk av nattoget fra Oslo med en usb-stick med videoeposet Being Is Being Used to Be Being Blurred i lomma.

Pressemelding:

Being Is Being Used to Be Being Blurred

Åpning fredag 28. oktober kl 20:00

Også åpent lørdag 29. og søndag 30. oktober kl 14-18

Pressemelding:

I remember when as a kid, age unspecified… I was sitting in the window of my cousin’s flat in this city in the mountains where it’s always raining, just singing out into the open and hoping for the neighbour girl to turn up so she would notice me and my act would turn into this weird, eccentric coincidence, that would finally lead her up into my arms and let her shiver like a flower. I remember I didn’t have a clue what to do, and I’m constantly looking for that sensation, burning, but it only seems like some vague reflection. A copy of a copy of a copy. You’re overdoing it. The memory isn’t that vivid. You’re romantizizing itzzz boring I tell you. What is not boring, you see, is finding yourself in wherever realising that you don’t understand shit about anything at any time about anything. That you can share nothing with no one no more. And that’s also fake, so where you standing, kid? In an illusion of an illusion in the search for a conclusion that would only lead to confusion. You sit there in that state of mind which keeps you paralysed, without the ability to do anything with the narrative of your life and time, and you imagine that it’s because you have nothing to do, but the reason you have nothing to do is because you’re doing nothing. And at once you start doing something, you feel vague ‘cause your identity is so slim. That you need all this time to subdue what is you into a pot or a pit that you can reach for with your fingertips and there is no time for regrets or secrets, wishes or big changes for you any more, ‘cause like before everything seems fantastic and beautiful but at once when it’s touching your face it grows cold and that’s because you’re getting old. You prepare for something that’s not there. Yet. But if you stay in that something, that moment you’re in, it will happen without you noticing it, and you repent cause you weren’t there to witness what happened around you, and if you stick with the social idea that you’re part of something, you weren’t there to witness what happened to you. There is style there is dreams there is time there is leisure there is career. And you weren’t there. To believe it to see it to indulge. In the apartment you stand, and in the apartment you realise this. What is this? This is melancholy. It’s the sadness of realizing how beautiful everything is. Sitting there with nothing you realise that you have been ignoring it. So you stand up and enter the door to the bathroom and you sit on the bathtub edge, dealing with it. Every sentence comes so fast. To your head and is changed out with a hum and then a new line of words. It’s boring it’s nauseating and it’s vague and unreal. How you feel. You’re dragged into a whirlpool of mist. Cause you have admired the ones who transcend into new dimensions constantly, and also you have been trapped into their scheme which brought them down and made you use the words that should never be spoken or should I say the words that shall not be combined, intertwined into the strangling labyrinth of circles on top of each other and even though you know you don’t need it you don’t know anything else. Nothing else you know and there you go. I see you in the distance fading away into a pyre, your back turned away. The back of your head is shaved. And I want to defeat you and beat you and force you down on your knees to pick up your bones again and put them in my bed and let you rest and witness the flesh grow as your lucid dreams screams yes please. Let me rest. And forget. Cause I’ve already forgotten or accepted or ignored the consequences of letting oneself be so consumed with regret that you became as pale as the reflection you see when you now and then dare to turn your face and see your reflection in the mirror. And in the deep voids in your skulls a diamond will appear when morninglight shines through the black spots expanding and contracting constantly now that you finally see that I’m holding your hand and that I understand. That I feel the same but that I want this infection to fade.

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