In summer, winter, autumn and spring a delivery of red apples arrives to a house, whose energetic address bends and shifts, according to the performing will of its followers, who call this place a theatre, gallery, museum, community and squat. Every Monday they appear, these delicious red fruits, but this
plentiful yield (as effortless as it may seem) is the result of a service incantation, an invisible art to ll the hungry stomachs of apple eaters—a proto Foodora—because every ecosystem needs to feed. The apples are props like costumes on a stage like attractive online interfaces like bait in a y traps like smoke in a room without re. Their smell is the whiff of alcohol wipes, apple vinaegar, sweat on skin, rotting fruit, a fog machine, burning incense and acrylic paint. Belonging to a series of sculptures, this version takes its impromptu form hung from the ceiling and propped together with a fridge. There is also a painting, a mophead and a map. Artistic supports that slip and slide with an air of sophistication and the profane: what looks like a silver halo from the Philippines is a pedestal; what looks like a death trap is nature’s own adsorption; what looks like a still life is a signifier for the human, looking and being seen.
For every one system exists another. There in repetition, copied and grafted anew, systems in competition, calling for attention and resources, another microcosm of identity and desire, mostly unknown, unless you go searching. Imagine you are there. Imagine you are them. How does it feel? I ask myself: do these instruction-based actions seek out empathy or is there some kind of appropriation involved? Maybe both. In any case, searching them out is like a culture-gathering telepathy that creates psychic
images in the mind’s eye, a micro harvest of rst impressions, sensing and scanning. That person over there is the smell of ecology.
The smell of cultured air, a solo exhibition by Jasmin Werner, presented from 24 March through 5 April 2016.
INT. BOUTIQUE HOTEL - RECEPTION AREA - DAY
We see Eloise from the point of view of the young concierge. The camera pans slowly from shoes, all the way up her body to her face just as she is taking off her sunglasses. POV switches to over Eloise’s shoulder as she walks up to the desk, where the young concierge looks as though he’s about to be eaten alive.
Eloise looks at the boy like he is crazy. She waits for him to walk away then lets out a breath of relief when he disapears down the hall. She opens the door.
The door swings open on a dark room and Eloise stands in front of the open door.