IMPRO, SANDRA NORRBIN, JAZZ FESTIVAL ARTIST 2007, "TRIUMPH AND DISASTER", BABEL, MAY 25 – JUNE 10, 2007
ImproSandra Norrbin, Jazz Festival Artist 2007, "Triumph and Disaster", Babel, May 25 – June 10, 2007
This text has been written by three authors, according to a principle we know from our childhood: You make a drawing, fold the paper so that only a small part of the drawing is revealed, and let another continue the drawing. In this way, an improvised, unforeseen result is achieved, a result fuelled by free association. The last part of a sentence of a paragraph becomes the point of departure for the next paragraph, which is written by a person who has not seen more than this very last part. Since improvisation leaves no room for revision, we have allowed repetitions to accumulate. After all, rhythm and repetition of themes are central in jazz music. We hope to surprise and to be surprised.
On my way into Babel, I’m met by a wall; a soft, grey, organic wall, a frozen landslide – an invasion? I’m almost overwhelmed and feel an impulse to exit in order to observe it all from a distance. At the same time, the great, soft, mass attracts me and seems to beg to be touched. What we see, filling the centre of the room from ceiling to floor, is Sandra Norrbin’s insulation mats. The mats are all the same size; but Norrbin achieves variation by stacking, bending and squeezing the soft textile mats, making them into an enormous conglomeration.
This mass appears to be both airy and massive. In relation to the gallery space, it still seems brutally invading. It dominates the room, spreads outwards, and its warm, heavy presence creates a sense of claustrophobia. The room is choking, and, similarly, we may feel a sense of suffocation. What is usually hidden behind the walls, is now allowed to expose its splendour in broad daylight. Even if it is somewhat disturbing, one may, nonetheless, feel a certain calm vis à vis this triumphant wall.
This disturbing calmness can be seen as the result of the inherent qualities of the insulation material – it mutes all sounds. The voice of the room is muted and inhibited – we are left with a calm that may feel both suffocating and claustrophobic. Is this the triumph of the material over the space? And yet, the installation is graciously supported by the ceiling and the columns, elements that keep the work in place. But perhaps it is to keep back the masses, to prevent them from dominating completely? We witness a struggle between void and mass, and we are forced to take sides. Three cheers for the winner!
In spite of the physical struggle, the various elements are interdependent. Each mat uses another mat as its base, strives to move upwards, layer by layer. It is like a geological petrification in undulating layers of various greyish-lilac hues. Every line, every curve, bear witness to the process that has taken place over time, both in the landscape and in Sandra’s sculptural installation. In a way, one could say that it is probably rather a dynamic co-operation involving artist, space and materials; a playful, challenging process that also demands physical force and coercion. Some places the material bulges, almost like protruding tummies, the folds of skin of the tendon of the knee, bent backs, crawling people. Insulation is usually hidden behind smooth, sturdy, walls – a taut and firm skin. Norrbin’s installation is skin-less. It is as if though the room has spread its bowels all over the place, dumping them at our feet.
A world consisting of materials that are normally hidden from our sight, is spread out before us. It is as if though one of the least prestigious architectonic materials is finally allowed to play a solo. At last, insulation material is given the role of the first trumpet. In itself, in this setting, the material makes up a kind of wall, or, rather, a wall that is falling to pieces. The term “wall” has many connotations, often connotations linked to politics. Our associations may wander to the Berlin wall, the Great Chinese Wall, and to the wall that presently divides the Gaza Strip. A wall may be an image of the human being’s need to call something its own by keeping out others. The message of this particular wall is, however, by no means obvious. Is it an inflexible barrier attempting to keep us away from the gallery space, or is it a wall in the process of decomposing?
What would happen if one ran along and hurled oneself against it? Would it dissolve? There is definitely something playful (like jumping castles and ballrooms) about this huge, tactile, body. The body is fragmented, consisting of numerous tiny openings and folds. What is hidden in these openings? And what does it look like from the backside? The body mass is full of secrets. The material itself is also a mysterious combination of coloured textiles. Thousands of tiny dots of fibres are squeezed together, constituting an indefinable, greyish accumulation.
It is compact – not at all like Wassili Kandinskij’s airy sonatas or Piet Mondrian’s colourful boogie-woogie grids. The soundless, mute mass at Babel still has a kind of rhythm in the varied forms and angles. The material twists and turns, inviting our gaze to take a stroll, to explore the hilly expanses of the textile landscape, to move along the wall. Some will say that the artist is the one who has determined the shape of the mats, but, as mentioned, the material offers resistance and has its own say when it comes to how it spreads, how it falls, how it folds. It is as if though the material has a life of its own, as if though it spreads outward, upward, sideways, crawls and reproduces, rises like a gigantic bread dough. When we turn our backs, maybe something inside it will start moving? Deep inside the mountain, where all creepy things have their origin.
Throughout the ages, the mountain has often been linked to man’s greatest fears. Its rough structure and its darkness makes it a fit image for all kinds of sordid qualities. At the same time, is has also served as a metaphor for that which is eternal, unchangeable, stable. “Agreed and faithful until Dovre (a huge Norwegian mountain) crumbles”. Sandra Norrbin’s mountain is not equally stable; all of a sudden it popped up at Babel, and it will probably disappear just as quickly as it turned up. This is precisely what adds a veil of mystery to this installation, what makes it different and exciting. One cannot help wondering about what may be found on the other side.
The backside, the front, the outside, the inside. From the street, one sees the installation differently; it appears to have another character. The distance makes it look even stranger, but also, possibly, less threatening. Giant Steps is a Jazz tune that might accompany these giant grey “steps”, layer upon layer. No wonder one feels like ascending them. The structure may also give associations to Gustav Vigeland’s The Monolith with its multitude of human bodies climbing and clinging to one another. And its colour is fairly close to that of granite. However, Sandra Norrbin’s does not really resemble anything else, and it is far from being as hard as rock. The process is evident in the finished product, a product that seems to resist the idea of being finished once and for all. Apparently, it desires to spread out, bulge; lead a life of its own. It collapses and is reconstructed. Coincidences and errors may serve as strengths to build upon. The installation wants to be a process. We only see it at a particular moment, frozen in time.
Anja Johansen, Kristin Mandt Heim and Solveig Lønmo
Translated by Birgit Kvamme Lundheim