Untitled, 2012

C-print framed









Untitled, 2012

C-print framed























Something for those who wait, 2012










his features
the veil now slides,
and the freed figure
against me hides, --
and suddenly everything
blends together
silently crumbles
and disappears. "

Ola Hansson
from the poem Notturno (1885)




Night air and faint mist enveloped me in their embrace, delicately caressing, greeting and receiving me. Feeling a deep sense of dizziness and weakness, I was not initially present, but not completely removed, either; more as if in some sort of intermediate state. I felt that the mist was an expression of uncertainty separating me from the rest of the world, and uncertain of my destination, I slid slowly forward towards the unknown.

The space I left behind lost slowly its defining borders, contours, shapes and colour. I tried to focus my gaze, but the landscape around me seemed to blur into vague abstract forms. I still remotely perceived mundane external reality, but its stimuli no longer reached my feelings at any point.

I reached out to the world and to the spheres beyond its influence. I looked as if through them, nearly as if they no longer were there at all. Resigning from the obligations and social codes my surroundings imposed on me, I slowly moved further away from the profane outside world. I slid uninhibitedly into a kind of delirious and fantastic reality, halfway between the real and the unlikely.

I dove and I immersed myself deeper into that border state, where motion no longer complied with any particular rhythm or choreography. A state, in which conflicting and random associations, subjective and objective desires and intensities were entangled in an undulating, polyphonic motion.

In this raging, foaming, unceasingly sputtering and splashing stream, I distanced myself both from time and space as a landscape opened up in front of me. This was not simply a traversing of known boundaries, but a radical transition into a new and unknown state.





I pace through forgotten rooms. The heels of my shoes make a noise on the marble floors in the large hall, breaking the silence. Slowing down my steps, I stop for a moment. I take one step forward, then retreat. A surprising confusion mutes me and I am overcome by an inexplicable sense of wonder and restlessness. I sense a presence in the room. Before me stands someone or something.

I do not think that these are old feelings that are discharged and flare up as I return to the scene of the crime. I do not know how to interpret this, but something alien, yet familiar, has been re-introduced into my world. Curious, but also with a hint of resistance, I explore the view in front of me, which fills me with a conflicting degree of disgust and admiration.

I take a deep breath and sigh. My nostrils expand and I breathe the air, alternating between restless and relaxed. I feel a sudden stinging and lacerating tremor inside. My nervous system is awake and in some sort of state of malfunction. The curtain has been pulled open and on the stage, I see a glimpse of myself, as if in a mirror - with you.

It is impossible to look directly into the eyes of Medusa without being turned into stone. You, however, decided to give me a softer option. You knew that the Devil was not an Other, but of the same essence as the Gods .

In full festive lighting, the glimmer of the crystal chandeliers streaming down onto my face, surrounded by this silent glow and light-bleached glitter, I suddenly vaguely remember the words that you uttered to me, many years ago. Almost as if silent echoes of a life gone by, they are carried back into my ears in a distant hum.





What closed and yet uncreated features our appearance does conceal! A large part of what has happened to us, and what we have perceived is inconsistent. Invisible and unknown to ourselves, hidden in the inexplicable networks of mental images, memory, experience and thought. Just like dreams that disappear like mirages every morning, but that are still ever-present. Dreams, which in themselves have their origins, origins unknown even to themselves.

Our story is familiar, yet our experience does not comply with generic patterns or habits, but is unique, free of convention or formality, inestimably and indescribably unique. Together, we think and feel more deeply than we can ever express. We are in need of precision, but it would be too violent to restrict it into an absolute category that excludes opportunities, and is too restrictive.

Everything revolves around the multilayered and mutually connected relations of things. Ghosts from the past and the ruins of history are a part of me, always present in the present. History makes a man, not just the opposite, and it is present in even the smallest detail, in the broad weave of history, in the dictionary and the links of the chain.

I am tired of pre-dictated attitudes, beliefs and manipulative messages aiming at changing behaviour, and the way that they flow, fast and aggressive from all sides. At a time when seriousness has become a target for distant laughter, I did not count the time, and I did not give you a certain framework. You challenged me to a continuous process of observation and re-evaluation, and I was willing to slowly and diligently meet you, and find out about you in humble patience.





I am tired, but not completely incapable of action. During the day, I belong to the world, but when the evening arrives, our moment has come. Black days give way to white nights, and what during the day has been secret and hidden, can now with ease be let loose without a fear of disturbance.

In this subtly simple and pure state I can, or I think I can, momentarily reach a peaceful interpretation of my life and the life around it. Of my life, which, incidentally, too often complies with the endless rhythm of excessive or nonexistent feelings.

There is no such thing as an existence protected from cracks. Although the ideal may not have a equivalent parallel, I have, however, paradoxically maintained the object of my longing in my heart. The ideal may, for us, be reflected in the surface of the pond, but does not appear to us, and it is not real, because it is not made of flesh. The skin I live in, however, is the shell that protects my real self. Not just a half, but a whole spiritually sexless and sexually indeterminate unity.

You gaze at me through half-open eyelids, and I lift up my eyes toward you. I create meanings and I recognize myself in you. Thoughts and actions are separate processes, you are the ambassador of my criminal feelings. This is not a solipsistic I-project of an individual, or a justification of the self through another, nor a voyeuristic act of peeping, invasion, or power play. You exist, I exist, we exist, and the space between us exists. We give each other space, and protect each other's loneliness.

But I want to replace denial and fear with curiosity. Even though I've been afraid of losing a limited sense of infinity in front of the infinite, I have longed for some kind of unity, some kind of connection. Skepticism perhaps has its part in the refining process, but now I long to be exposed to immediacy and direct contact.





Your face is framed and decorated by a complex and dreamy magnitude, which is both heady and enticing. In a well-practiced and careful gesture your finger lands slowly and playfully gently on my lips, as if to indicate silence. Your breathing wavers, and you bite your lip with a sly and clandestine look.

You radiate a quaint charm and instead of being confused, I do not resist, but reach out towards you. You bow your head ever so slightly, and eloquently, rhythmically and harmonically convey secrets and lies in my ear. Sweetly seductive lies, that are a prelude to your tender affections and our first entanglement.

In the middle of existence - of an existence, which is perceived as fragmentary, hollow, alienating, absurd, irrelevant and blunted - we have now been released of tensions and disturbances. Our experiences are sincere and concrete. I have not been hallucinating. For a moment, I see all this without an imaginary halo - naked and clear as a mirror.

The situation manifests itself to me in clearly defined terms. Rather than abstract concepts, or spheres, we were caught in a temporal and finite existence. I feel a physical convulsion, and I feel almost as if the Idea would have had its tangible reflection in us. Or, at least, a reflection somewhere in the middle ground between reality and artificiality, created together in harmony by us.

A feeling springing from inside of me tells me, very quietly, almost in a whisper, that I am finally free from reflection and confusion, even if only temporarily. This evening, the impenetrable soliloquy is silent, and I do not hesitate. This is not a some great pathetic or melodramatic scene. Everything that happens, happens quietly and accurately – compassionately slow, unhindered by nothing. (Almost unnoticed, lost and entangled in silent peace. )

The lights dim and my eyelids become unbearably heavy. The flow of time sways, then slows down. Accompagnied by bleary melodic lines, eyes half-closed, I fall slowly into an easy drowsiness and the embrace of a dreamy stupor.




Behind my closed eyelids, I see an unexpected strong flash, which after a fleeting blinding moment cuts and then is gone. A few seemingly endless seconds later, the brightness is switched off. My expression stiffens and I stand still where I stood, transfixed and unblinking as a statue.

I bat my eyelids. I sense my body again, and am made aware that I am but a part of a set finite physical space. I feel the sharp sting of the Kiss of Death, and a sharp word cuts my ear, without permission announcing that the time for my visit is over. I try for a while to hold on to you, but to no avail. The last veil has now been pulled from in front of my eyes, and I walk out silent and expressionless to welcome my judgment.

I do not know whether this desire is the cause of all this suffering, but I know, however, that without it your beauty would not have been made real. Anxiety is a prerequisite condition of movement, as well as the secret to your vitality. You and your life are not the same thing, and life does not overtly imitate you. You capture me and you raise me up. However, it may be that you also destroy the life that exists around me.

Some of my contemporaries have removed you from their calendar. For you I acquiesce, however, to withstand the noise and roar of futility, its crushing pressure. I do not feel that I have fallen in love with a mirage or a substitute. This is not a temporary concession, indiscretion, or a quick fix. Without images, melodies or languages worth loving and worshipping, we would lose the ability to withstand existence.



Along these large public halls

I shall walk even then

towards you,

committed and loyal, again and again ,

to my private space,

my own little retreat,

By your side!






Ville Andersson, 2012