David Douard
22 Nov 2013 - 09 Feb 2014
DAVID DOUARD
Narrow-Cold Lovel
22 November 2013 – 9 February 2014
A preface
In the opening scene of George Romero’s Land of the Dead the camera sweeps over what seems to be a desolate landscape. Maybe a park, maybe a fun fair. However, it is not deserted. It is inhabited by a different type of being. The living dead. In a pavilion a group of them have formed something that looks like a band. They play together. They have no idea how to use their instruments. They have no idea of tune nor rhythm. They have no idea of music. But they play nevertheless. A collective affirmation between dead beings. Something new is being articulated. Through their inability, through a loss of history and knowledge, through a collective endeavour. A kind of revolt against the existing order? A refusal? If this collective articulation is a revolt, the music played might be the return of their lost souls.
The exhibition
Skin. A door. Yellow light.
The eggs in the space are all empty. The beings growing inside are long gone. No bodies, only frames and containers. Remains. A deserted landscape. What is left is a silent collective of dead objects. Without a language and the ability to speak. Between the silence of the objects and the tattoo-like statements written on their skin something new is being formulated. Formless. Quiet. A re-framing of words and statements, like whispers. A language articulated by objects. A return. A protest. A reappearing of lost souls. Counter strategies of DIY and hacker culture, teenage behaviour and distortion. Modified objects. Found text and projected images. Artificial environments and constructed collectivity. Infected collages of things, ideas and matter of facts. This is the weave of David Douard. On the skin, always on the skin. On the surface between things and states. As a reflection.
Narrow-Cold Lovel
22 November 2013 – 9 February 2014
A preface
In the opening scene of George Romero’s Land of the Dead the camera sweeps over what seems to be a desolate landscape. Maybe a park, maybe a fun fair. However, it is not deserted. It is inhabited by a different type of being. The living dead. In a pavilion a group of them have formed something that looks like a band. They play together. They have no idea how to use their instruments. They have no idea of tune nor rhythm. They have no idea of music. But they play nevertheless. A collective affirmation between dead beings. Something new is being articulated. Through their inability, through a loss of history and knowledge, through a collective endeavour. A kind of revolt against the existing order? A refusal? If this collective articulation is a revolt, the music played might be the return of their lost souls.
The exhibition
Skin. A door. Yellow light.
The eggs in the space are all empty. The beings growing inside are long gone. No bodies, only frames and containers. Remains. A deserted landscape. What is left is a silent collective of dead objects. Without a language and the ability to speak. Between the silence of the objects and the tattoo-like statements written on their skin something new is being formulated. Formless. Quiet. A re-framing of words and statements, like whispers. A language articulated by objects. A return. A protest. A reappearing of lost souls. Counter strategies of DIY and hacker culture, teenage behaviour and distortion. Modified objects. Found text and projected images. Artificial environments and constructed collectivity. Infected collages of things, ideas and matter of facts. This is the weave of David Douard. On the skin, always on the skin. On the surface between things and states. As a reflection.