Precambrian Swamp Jazz
Opening Saturday 31st of August, 1 – 4 pm
Tom Howse’s paintings balance between realism and fantasy and explore what the artist describes as the dichotomy between our quest to know and our fallibility to comprehend. Explaining the mysteries of the cosmos, the earth and humanity; the theme of life and death; and the causes and meaning of natural phenomena, has bewildered humanity since ancient times. Taking it’s form in folklore and myths, Howse is interested in how humans are drawn towards explanations found within these stories and how they are used to sooth the fear of the unknown.
Tom Howse was born in Chester, England in 1988. The artist currently lives and works in London.
In 2018 he was one of five artists to receive the John Moore’s Painting Prize and was shortlisted for the Caitlin Prize (2012) and the Prunella Clough Painting Award (2012). Recent solo exhibitions; Post- Celestial Compost, 2017, Rod Barton Gallery, London; Secondhand Toad Poems, 2017, Tanja Pol Galerie, Munich. Selected group exhibitions; I Must Be Seeing Things,2019, Ratskeller Galerie, Berlin; Kaleidoscope,2019, Saatchi Gallery, London; Condo London,2019, Koppe Astner, London; John Moore’s Painting Prize, 2018, Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool
Opening Saturday May 11th I 1 – 4 pm
Exhibition period May 12th – June 14th
Roald Kyllingstad (*1942) lives and works in Stavanger, Norway. The artists high-end finished exhibits intersect photorealism and abstract painting. His paintings are workings of extraordinary precision, proficient craftmanship and subtle nuances of colours – the almost hyperreal images are solely crafted with pastel crayons. His subjects are frozen moments of tranquility, deserted spots at night and abandoned places. Kyllingstad’s motifs are selected from the world of consumerism: shop window displays, shop interiors or parking-lots. He translates those ‚familiar’ pictures into a preternatural dimension far beyond the wellknown or trivial. The impact and application of artifical light is one of his most chief instruments. „I am fascinated the way light can alter the shape and surface of any objects“, says Kyllingstad. Even if he grants us a view of those in-depth and photorealistic scenarios, we are left outside, merely observers: astonished, bewildered and puzzled. Kyllingstad shows the paradox behind the ‚illusion of transparency’. Not: We see, what we see! But: We see what we want to see! As a result of each individual experience.
Our perception is not transparent und our sense of reality is not common. What is left, is the disbelief in an objective reality, in the existence of an impartial outside world.
Nihil est in intellectu quod non prius fuerit in sensibus
(There appear not to be any ideas in the mind before the senses have conveyed any in. According to Aristoteles)
Opening hours during the exhibition from May 19th, by appointment: +47 91613947
February 15th – March 17th 2019
December 2nd 2018 – January 13th 2019
From Tue 11th – Sun 23rd of December, weekdays by appointment only.
Saturday 11:00 – 15:00 / Sunday 12:00 – 16:00
Opening Friday October 26th, 7 pm
Last week from Tue 20th – Fri 23rd of November, by appointment only.
Saturday 24th 11:00 – 15:00 / Sunday 25th 12:00 – 16:00
Florian Neufeldt Andreas Plum
Hi_LoRes No 40-43, 2016
Oil, graphite and charcoal on canvas
140 x 100 cm
O.T (Come on Baby light my fire), 2017
Pencil on paper
215 x 202 cm
Reinforcement basket, concrete
110 x 220 x 20 cm
Oil, acrylic on burlap
250 x 180 cm
Strasse der Jugend 3, 2018
Oil, charcoal and paper on canvas
172 x 232 cm
295 x 103 cm
Untitled (Wildschweinkessel), 2014
Resin, soil, steel
78 x 70 x 53 cm
flipping birds and crushed oysters
like dreamland pools –
through a limelight of dismay
in the passage – deeply set
ever so slightly tectonic plates shift
long slow squeeze*
23 March – 22 April 2018
A thing that is cut short. A thing that carries on. A thing and a thing; a thing or a thing. A thing conjunct; a thing conjoined. Do they share a gauche line — the truncated, the amputated, the bent and warped — the infinite, the palimpsest, the overlaid and ricocheted? For what, in the end, is the responsibility of forms, if not to each other. A slow and then rapid shapeshift of one into the next. A tranche of concrete cylinder coated in corrugated white sits at the end of a large, pale puddle that is pockmarked with dark, uneven deposits: holes in this surface, or stains, or both. The puddle is solid, but it wants to ooze, its edges poised to creep forward at any moment should the opportunity for transfiguration arise. The slice of cylinder, or is it a wheel, shares the same pattern as its puddle, and even in stasis it pushes through space with the motion of similar surfaces. Did it enter from elsewhere, imprint the puddle, and stop here in trajectory? Or did the puddle excrete it, a sticky , lumbering birth.
In Abbreviated Extensions, V era Kox’s first solo show at Galleri Opdahl, objects are transitory and transformable; rooted and fixed; but liquid and moving, shimmering, collapsed, filthy , incandescent. Materials beg to be touched, with their subtle faces raised and textured, but insist on opacity and discrete surfaces — a calculated layer of strange stretched coolly over the familiar. A swathe of cerulean ceramic is held just above the floor by two blocks of foam, their edges discoloured by time or by light, or by whatever else pressed against them the hardest. The blue collapses gently under its own weight, its belly kissing close to the ground, the texture of its surface depressing to reveal the straight edges of the shapes beneath. The ineluctable pull of gravity and grace. Desire to touch this pool of blue, this smear of sky that scatters the mind — to dip a toe, and then plunge. Desire to run fingers through this neon streak of hair, which beckons elusively with its silky falseness. The stutter of impossibility, a sickness in the gut. Question after question, patiently superimposed. How is it that glass can seem so soft; and what happens through this green frame askew , with its foreground pierced by chains and a metal rod? What food is this, artificial and yet ripe for consumption — proffered on plinths, shrink-wrapped in cellophane and held so tenderly on glazed promontories?
Around these fallen objects, slumped and spilling, molten and solid — transient states — abbreviated extensions — where do the bodies go? Or need there be a body at all, to witness these mute and tensile complexes. These chains that hang — from the ceiling, from the walls — cut through the rooms, pushing emptiness with their swaying, striated forms. They press against the skin of the space, which is brimming with invisible, negative volumes: absence is endured, manipulated, produces new rhythms, structure and syntax. The language here, in Kox’s world of materials estranged and intimate, is one of accretion and entropy . A world — which is also our world — this world — the world — in which chains bind and link disparate matter, suspend and swing and conjure as many absent metonymies as they can bear.
— Emily LaBarge