The Organizer

As the organizer I wanted to sort the world, draw the lines and put everything in it’s right box. It makes the world understandable. But the categories kept failing and unless you make a box for every single thing you won’t understand the world that way anyway.

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Control system

Everything changed a little bit to the left.

I wake up at the subway with no idea of where I’m going. Who was I when getting on this train? I look out the window. We create this hard world. Then we create shoes to walk on it without damaging out feet. Lights passing outside in the dark while I’m trying my shoes against the floor.

Everything will move back again to the way it was and they will tell me what station to get off at.

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Silicone cubes

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Shellac and fabric box

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Collapsing cube of bandage and shellac

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Bloated cube of raw hide and concrete

 

Who are you, the ones that’s being heard?

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F.U.M.S.

Facility for Unreceived Message Storage

In the Unheard, the middle ground or no-mans-land of communication, the Facility of Unreceived Message Storage (F.U.M.S.)is the place of disposal for lost words. Every message in the endless rows and rows of storage units has been ignored, left unsaid or prevented by time, but is still traveling, it is still trying to reach it’s intended receiver. Very few of them ever leave those shelves once it has landed there though.

If you walk down the aisles maybe you can hear some of them whisper, but you can never fully know what they intended to say. Their time and context has passed, their voices have grown fixed and quiet inside these bottles and they where never intended for you anyway.

This is a sample of 71 unheard messages collected from 7 countries. 

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Once again, a big thank you to everyone who participated. The top picture is from the exhibition, the text under it the presentation.

Stacking

Dear Society,

Is it just these people I’m outside of, or is it everyone?

You raise us as islands and teach us to see ourselves as individuals, separated from the rest of the world. You isolate us in little compartments, stacked close together in big buildings, but separated so completely as if existing in different dimensions. We live on controllable islands of sameness in an ocean of otherness.

But you’re forgetting that there is no word for the difference between me and the world.

Or am “I” that word?

Doubtfully, The Introvert

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Stack of concrete compartments

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Stack of velvet compartments

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Group of cages/city scape

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Stacking compartments close together