Rammed earth, cut photographs from the Jimaní/Malpasse border crossing connecting the Dominican Republic and Haiti. A collaboration with Troels Steenholdt Heiredal.

A Letter to the Landscape

voice 1:
A letter to the landscape.

voice 2:
Driving through you is beautiful, the dust from the wheels rolling on the gravel is carried out over the lake and makes a veil through which you are partly visible, partly hidden—partly reality, partly dream. Your mountains slid away to reveal their insides to stand as a blank canvas towards the immense lake—mountains are not hollow.

voice 1:
You swallowed houses; at times leaving only the flat roof in sight as a concrete raft—and the horse drinks from your water nearby. When the forest floor is drowned, the trees emerge as individual bodies doubled by reflection—we see in new ways.

voice 2:
The perversion of finding beauty in devastation; your collapsed mountainsides and flooded lake.
What happened to you? Who did this? Was this your way of telling us to stop? That you had had enough?

voice 1:
And now you lay here, cut up, and layered. Stacked onto yourself. Trapped between sheets of plexi pressing down on the geometrically formed dirt.

voice 2:
Here—in the gallery—we finally have control over you.

voice 1:
You will fall apart if we attempt to lift you.
The land is not a passive body; it guides our movement. Often disregarded, substrata are active and able to move us. It is a conversation not a monologue, to participate you also have to listen.

voice 2:
—not just keep shouting.

voice 1:
We spend a great deal of energy reshaping, displacing, filtering, remixing, compressing the surface into particular political and geometric forms and then there comes a time when our constructions are deconstructed whether by human desire or nature, the formed and demarcated land is eroded and becomes rubble; thus returning to a new version of a previous state.

voice 2:
Throughout time; shifts in land formations have prompted us to redefine geography. When the soil beneath your house is renamed, you become displaced without moving; does that make you homeless?

Rammed earth, cut photographs from the Jimaní/Malpasse border crossing connecting the Dominican Republic and Haiti. A collaboration with Troels Steenholdt Heiredal.

A Letter to the Landscape

voice 1:
A letter to the landscape.

voice 2:
Driving through you is beautiful, the dust from the wheels rolling on the gravel is carried out over the lake and makes a veil through which you are partly visible, partly hidden—partly reality, partly dream. Your mountains slid away to reveal their insides to stand as a blank canvas towards the immense lake—mountains are not hollow.

voice 1:
You swallowed houses; at times leaving only the flat roof in sight as a concrete raft—and the horse drinks from your water nearby. When the forest floor is drowned, the trees emerge as individual bodies doubled by reflection—we see in new ways.

voice 2:
The perversion of finding beauty in devastation; your collapsed mountainsides and flooded lake.
What happened to you? Who did this? Was this your way of telling us to stop? That you had had enough?

voice 1:
And now you lay here, cut up, and layered. Stacked onto yourself. Trapped between sheets of plexi pressing down on the geometrically formed dirt.

voice 2:
Here—in the gallery—we finally have control over you.

voice 1:
You will fall apart if we attempt to lift you.
The land is not a passive body; it guides our movement. Often disregarded, substrata are active and able to move us. It is a conversation not a monologue, to participate you also have to listen.

voice 2:
—not just keep shouting.

voice 1:
We spend a great deal of energy reshaping, displacing, filtering, remixing, compressing the surface into particular political and geometric forms and then there comes a time when our constructions are deconstructed whether by human desire or nature, the formed and demarcated land is eroded and becomes rubble; thus returning to a new version of a previous state.

voice 2:
Throughout time; shifts in land formations have prompted us to redefine geography. When the soil beneath your house is renamed, you become displaced without moving; does that make you homeless?