texts

Establishing or bypassing of reversed situations/institutions…

Steinar has a video work set in his studio in which he rides a dead cardboard horse, attempting to dissuade danger by swinging a piece of wood attached to a length of rope above his head, like an Aboriginal woomera. And remember, form is also to be read politically, thus you rise in a silent roar of meaning. Burnt out. You shall burn out your own actuality, enforce the picture. Burn out the perpetual loss. And it is the recollections that won’t keep quiet, they ask… old stupid questions about the future. – It is laughter and weeping.

Superstructures will establish transactions with your body. Are you willing to lend your body to the ideologies? Or do you want to cheat them, keep your body to yourself, burn it out yourself, spare those without guilt from the back-sweep of your forced socio-religious vanity. Power with shame, maturity and contradiction. This is where you may rest your glance, authorize your position. The primitive force of metabolism, eternal rebirth of three-dimensionality, implosion or explosion – in sympathy for the syntax that this logic demands. The form of these ideas can sometimes seem hale in these surroundings. The drill spins and emanates its deadly “orgon” radiation (DOR), the sun goes down, the cold eye of the moon reflects your dehydrated spirit. To deny powerlessness, articulate an ornament of human rights as a mirror and an echo of the thousands of dream-castles that have stranded on your coast. But already at this moment you know that this is not all, and, again and again will this happen over your shiny polished knucklebones. The night will come, two friends will meet and part again. Steinar lowers his head in front of a white monochrome trypticon, somebody must lower their head and this is also you. But the thirst in that what you sense outside yourself shall remind you of what you once were, and again take you beyond that which nothing wants. Someone yells, they demand answers,

they wish to eat your hair, your hands, others are just looking, this is institutionalized self-hatred. Muted drawings protesting… products of mentality clusters, transcending, protest! As if by, running in and out of sanity, as if by time and other universal laws, as if by the necessity of economy.

In the woods one bark-beetle screams out towards ten thousand dry-spruces, the farmer weeps.

essay by Kristian ø. dahl

“the tremendous unbounded yes and amen”

By Bent Gate

“the tremendous unbounded yes and amen” Kristensens work always leads the spectator in to a swamp of rhetoric contradictions. And that is where he wants you, for to feel the disillusion, see the great institution of self-hatred, the perversion of culture and “the self-annihilating nothing” namely art itself. His work constitutes a will to challenge and an endurable will to expression, or even more precise, a desire for faith. In the exhibition “the tremendous unbounded yes and amen”at tcb art inc, Kristensen displays, among 3 sculptures, and 5 fotos, a video in which he poses as an indigenous man. The title of the work is the aborigine word “ninganah” which is known to have no meaning at all. Trough this theatrical spectacle he points to the fundamental paradox of “the passion for the real” The key to this reversal resides in the ultimate impossibility of drawing a clear distinction between deceptive reality and a positive kernel of the real. Every positive bit of reality is suspicious a priori. We know from Lacan that the Real Thing is ultimately another name for the Void. The pursuit of the real equals total annihilation, a self-destructive fury in which the only way to track the distinction between the semblance and the real is to stage a fake spectacle. By Bent Gate	Establishing or bypassing of reversed situations/institutions… Steinar has a video work set in his studio in which he rides a dead cardboard horse, attempting to dissuade danger by swinging a piece of wood attached to a length of rope above his head, like an Aboriginal woomera. And remember, form is also to be read politically, thus you rise in a silent roar of meaning. Burnt out. You shall burn out your own actuality, enforce the picture. Burn out the perpetual loss. And it is the recollections that won’t keep quiet, they ask… old stupid questions about the future. – It is laughter and weeping. Superstructures will establish transactions with your body. Are you willing to lend your body to the ideologies? Or do you want to cheat them, keep your body to yourself, burn it out yourself, spare those without guilt from the back-sweep of your forced socio-religious vanity. Power with shame, maturity and contradiction. This is where you may rest your glance, authorize your position. The primitive force of metabolism, eternal rebirth of three-dimensionality, implosion or explosion – in sympathy for the syntax that this logic demands. The form of these ideas can sometimes seem hale in these surroundings. The drill spins and emanates its deadly “orgon” radiation (DOR), the sun goes down, the cold eye of the moon reflects your dehydrated spirit. To deny powerlessness, articulate an ornament of human rights as a mirror and an echo of the thousands of dream-castles that have stranded on your coast. But already at this moment you know that this is not all, and, again and again will this happen over your shiny polished knucklebones. The night will come, two friends will meet and part again. Steinar lowers his head in front of a white monochrome trypticon, somebody must lower their head and this is also you. But the thirst in that what you sense outside yourself shall remind you of what you once were, and again take you beyond that which nothing wants. Someone yells, they demand answers, they wish to eat your hair, your hands, others are just looking, this is institutionalized self-hatred. Muted drawings protesting… products of mentality clusters, transcending, protest! As if by, running in and out of sanity, as if by time and other universal laws, as if by the necessity of economy. In the woods one bark-beetle screams out towards ten thousand dry-spruces, the farmer weeps. essay by Kristian ø. dahl