ill omen 3 @ malpaís
Taka Kono + Claudia Dyboski + Cayetano Truyols
ill omen 3 invites us to navigate the hazy boundary between the familiar and the disconcerting, a labyrinthine journey through our most deeply rooted anxieties. The three artists expertly conjure a realm where the ordinary is imbued with a haunting otherness, where the specter of the unknown lurks just beyond the veil of the everyday. In this enigmatic space, we are confronted with the disquieting echoes of a world undone, a stark reflection of the tenuous threads that bind us to our fragile existence. The artists play between the tangible and the intangible, their works straddling the precipice between reality and dreams, truth and falsehood.
The first piece, a post-apocalyptic flag, looms in the shadows. The skull, pierced by needles, seems to solemnly preside over the scene, while the blood collection tube attached to the rotating fan stirs the air. Burning incense sticks cast a dim glow, their scent permeating the space with an uneasy nostalgia. Wandering through the darkness, an unexpected sight greets visitors: a horseshoe crab fused with a Roomba. This peculiar marriage of ancient and modern roams the venue, inviting contemplation on the passage of time and the merging of the natural and the artificial. Further along the path, the fragmented silhouette of a dismembered body materializes. Crafted from reflective fabric, the figure rests atop a discarded truck part. The sculpture, shimmering in the faint light, appears to be searching for solace in a world where comfort is scarce.
As we traverse the exhibition, we bear witness to the uncanny manifestations of our darkest fears. In ill omen 3, hope is ephemeral, flickering in and out like a candle struggling against the wind, while the abyss returns our gaze with a frigid, unyielding countenance. By exploring the interstices of our collective psyche, ill omen 3 compels us to confront the disconcerting duality that lies within us all, where the known and the unknown intertwine in a dance of convulsive beauty.
Text by Sparkle
ill omen 2 @ CHURCH
Taka Kono + Claudia Dyboski + Torre Alain
The dream always starts in a tunnel with an overflow of some liquid caught between rainwater and gasoline. The distinction between the two seems to be tethered to each other, slowly fading into a single point, as if it's waiting for me to make up my mind. The moment I sense that I am resisting this threat, the flood starts to catch fire. Smoke is released and permeates the air surrounding me. The scent of burning gasoline summons a childhood fear of the tunnel, while the petrichor evokes nostalgia and makes me think about my previous life. Through my own thoughts, I discover that I have been here before. At this exact moment of realization, I become more convinced than ever that this is a bad dream from which I must awaken.
Text by Sprinkle
ill omen 1 @ dungeon detroit
Taka Kono + Claudia Dyboski
Once I’m paralyzed I head straight for the lights. It’s faint, but I can sense my own attempt at noting differences in the surroundings. Speed, temperature, lighting, noise, urgency... as if to shield themselves from identification, all markers converge (congeal?) into a single sensory concentrate, and I am left with a residually familiar impulse to hop.
A bubble trickles upwards and breaks on the water’s surface. Whatever’s inside dissipates, without discernible noise, into the air. This sequence of events makes me emotional. Air—Is that the way? I’ll need to get as much of it under me as possible, for as long as possible. I need to reduce surface contact, get it as close as I can to zero. Suddenly I’m propelled outward, in a trajectory I did not select. Control improves between hops. I experience the dawning of a skill, the acquisition of something, an idea, the familiar feeling of an image and its transferability into cognition.
Hotel, road, forest, house, staircase, roof (top floor). That’s the layout so far. I haven’t yet figured out what the change is. Like an intruder, I hear this thought. Submerged, it bellows through the floor, like a dense object plummeting into a fragile body of water. Then the nets start moving. When I saw them (back in the forest) they didn’t look like they’d hold for long. This concern is like sludge. It seeps outward of me. But from where? Only then I acquiesce the multiple knife wounds I’ve sustained, most of them on my thighs. I check to see if I’m feeling any pain. There is none. I realize I am still inside the house at the end of a (long) drive.
In eastern Taipei there’s a defunct metal plant overlooking the sea. From the outside, its remnants seem to recede inwards, as if they had always been remnants. Leaking out from the exterior, under the rows of hollowed arches, there are traces of what looks like resin, as if some of the thirteen stories had been crying. The building has three long exhaust pipes running up the hillside, which released toxic gases when it had been in operation. One of the miners had joked about it looking like a palace, but I don’t remember hearing anyone laugh that day.
The forest repossesses everything in time. Layer upon layer, it becomes more of its own shape. Freak accidents are absorbed into an ever-amorphous center. Sap is sent toward cuts that appear in its membrane. Territory is flourished and flattened, performed in a perfect alternation. These dream mechanics are never accidental. It’s always chicken-egg. Choose one and the other is revealed. That type of deal. To leave, I’ll need to know w
The forest repossesses everything in time. Layer upon layer, it becomes more of its own shape. Freak accidents are absorbed into an ever-amorphous center. Sap is sent toward cuts that appear in its membrane. Territory is flourished and flattened, performed in a perfect alternation. These dream mechanics are never accidental. It’s always chicken-egg. Choose one and the other is revealed. That type of deal. To leave, I’ll need to know why I’m here.
Text by Rohan Mills
