For me the fascination of the artistic practice lies in the unpredictable outcome of the process. Suddenly the, up to that moment, unknown appears because of the exchange of two sections of text, or because of the erasure of half a hand drawn, or because of the touch of a flame on a piece of wood. This emergence always surprises and leaves me in awe, hence I constantly search for it. I work on parallell tracks with words, images and objects, one thing leads to the other; something written gives the solution to a drawing, something found and three dimensional enters a text. I am a collector of strands of hair, and pebbles, and written notes, and burnt out matches (the list can be made considerably longer). Sketchbooks are filled from the midsection and outwards. I have been told that what I do are a sort of diaries, a comment I have warded off because I have thought that diaries are truthful and I do not limit myself to the actual truth. But perhaps ”diaries” indeed is a possible label if one accepts that in life there is a leak between the everyday; actual events, and the magical; which is something I cannot explain in other terms than as a twisted pleasurable extension of reality.
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