Lone Haugaard Madsen's work questions the status of permanence. Hoaxes, failures, porches, archaeological strata spread out on a continuous thin plane softness and speed, echoes, spores, tropes, fonts not identity but incident and the accumulation of air miles unmarked solitude absorbing time, bloating to become an environment, indexical euphorias, the unraveling of laughter a brief history of escalators memory manifest, brindled, loosening a crumpling of automotive glass… (Lisa Robertson, “Soft Architecture: A Manifesto”) How do we move into another time? Can we design ourselves? What if class were a flat plane? Can I move apart from, next to my style? It grows robust with anachronisms, which I suddenly find poetic, in the way that people use the word “poetic” to mean a kind of beauty they don’t yet understand. It’s greedy, and it takes in much of what I see. I’m not sure where the fixation comes from, or what I want from it. In its aftermath, the subject is a private detective, a medical doctor, Mister Magoo, thinking of reasons, working out cause and effect. Is there a word for that feeling? Architecture is born into an order, and whatever shifts by which it becomes disorganized are the work of time or violence. A horror evidenced by the material that loses its meaning. On the gallery floor four balconies lie prone, civic objects in the leaky horror of things misplaced. Even a fractal shift in meaning reminds me that I am arbitrary, and I seek it, sit with it, an erotics of the ahistorical. I’m consumed by the idea that things could have been otherwise.
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