“Fragment” explores the theme of memory. Formally, the accessible installation is a new structure created out of remnants left over from a room‘s reconstruction that Balve then arranged based on personal memories. The fragments are reconstructed as a sequence of three rooms that have lost their original coherence. The number of coordinates lessens from room to room, like a fading memory that is increasingly fragmented, until it is finally reduced to a few disjointed images. The combination of sculptural elements, moving video images, photographs and disturbing sounds resembles the multimedia character of memories that can include pictorial elements, movie-like scenes, sounds, and especially feelings. Photographs and videos serve a key function here, referring to earlier events in these spaces. They show a female and a male protagonist in the original space. Only vaguely recognizable, the figures are in ambiguous situations: spookily and in slow motion, the woman moves on all fours across the dirty floor, and a gigantic man seems to disappear with his head in the ceiling of the dark room. The surreal, nightmarish images suggest sinister associations with individual fears and violent scenarios. Although the view- er may attempt to construct a coherent story, or at least relation- ships between the portrayed scenes, their significance ultimately remains mysterious. This also applies to the objects, seemingly randomly left behind, distributed in the space. Bottles, cables and dirty dishes are visible in parts of the photographs. Who could have used these things; what happened here? The place seems charged with the energy of past events, which are sensed or imagined by the observer and perhaps even interwoven with his or her memories. An unsettling feeling arises, an irritation, like the aftermath of a nightmare. The represented decay and anonymous bodies with their blurred faces give the work a metaphorical dimension: The dilapidated derelict house becomes a symbol for the human psyche, for the uncontrollable processes of our memory. SO
I am here.
I have always been here.
Holding onto the edge,
Inconspicuously above the ground,
maneuvering the scaffolding.
Happiness strangles me
with triumphal ribbons and strings of success.
One cut.
I dive down.
The wound is not obvious,
The base tint, conversely, escapes no one.
“Is it a different air that is breathed here?” “Probably? The soft whistling suggests this.”
– Frank Balve –