2023 – ongoing, work in progress


Series of large-scale digital photographs

as recently part of 
Disput Magazine – 1st Issue 2025, MACHT, Basel/Berlin

2025
Acts of Soft Defiance, SLUG x Tired Mass, Leipzig

Mixed Media Installation

glazed porcelain, bees wax candles, photo transfer, aluminium ashtrays
dimensions variable

exhibition views by Emilia Trog

dear ,
Recently I observed myself dreaming more consciously. It is a peculiar, at times eerie place where I am being beamed. It feels like I am vividly and veritably experiencing moments from the past, or rather, the past in a different dimension. I enjoy these uncanny encounters, thus they are putting me into a sort of uncomfortable bodily state - it is like I am oscillating between walls, bouncing from door to door. I sort of took a liking to imagining the intangible, exiting the material world that surrounds me most of the time. Things I usually see around seem to be defined - no, confined actually - by rectangular thinking. Wherever I look I see over-and overwritten endless codes of human sensegiving. If space-junk is the human debris that litters the universe, junk-space is the residue mankind leaves on the planet.

There however, when I enter this echo state, things disperse into waves, less strict parameters. Time stops mattering, linearity melts into rousingly moving measures that trace back and forth into ambiguity. Logic disintegrates. What causes traces has already disappeared by the time the trace becomes itself. Everything starts making sense without asking for a reason to exist. It’s like the glossy wrapping, the skin usually holding the world together, suddenly rips; the simulation that cries out: Give me shape, give me meaning! becomes obsolete.

Then, I slide back into the now, finding my fingers fumbling robotically for the device next to my pillow. Tired eyes staring into the light emitting rectangle, trying to latch onto some piece of visual information. Clearly, an odd feeling stays with me. It’s the clammy realness that hits me, while my eyes wander and pause looking through the hole in the wall called window. I grasp, it was a fabulation, a Swiss wet dream.