Currently reading : Rider


12 August 2014

Author : tiril-hasselknippe

_4 Installation view 2 copy

One arm for the shaking.


A little trepidation and surefire ways. The weld is strong. Hold this. Fall down. View the site. Change the part. I flip my hair and wait for change. Supported by air. Subdue the outlet. Taxing systems. Counter this point.


A young Christopher Walken walks into the arcade.


Air shaped by face. A light brush with gravity. Keeping it fresh for the visitors. Keeping others at bay until there is no more distance. Filling the gaps with spring steps. A bounce. A dive.

Water stays by my arms slowing down the movement. Lighter. Deeper. Solar rays hits the backside. Radiation seeps. An exfoliation of the outer dermis. Energy trickles down the spine. The charge is complete. The charge is everything.


This is our last chance to die. Last day to go. The motel is always open. The roads are high and free. Less white powder and more natural juices we decide. Taper it down. Flared means. One pair of outcasts. Two halves of the moon smiling. On its side. Tilted. Slanted. Pointing upwards. Projecting. There is an omen resting in these brows. Sculpted for this moment. Truth and arch jointed together. The enders game. This expansion lasted 5 suns.


Torch the sunlight. Scathing reprises. Compliant corners. Most of these are transplants. Misplaced objects with limbs. Path travelers greeting each other. The revolt of the pedestrians have started. A river enters the building. These colors are fugitive. Orphan sculptures. Bodies led by chance. Not lost but still. Find me the seeker. Show me the curve.


Deviant acts and misgivings. No sidecar. No ride.

A standstill. Exceeding limits.


This expansion lasted 5 days. Time walking in circles.


Disparate objects. No compliance. You won’t fit speed in a corner. The sculpture fell down and died. On disk. Walking back to the quarry. Back to the simple things. Find the traces. Imperial beaches. Ready the body. Ready the suit.

I walk to the site. I wear these sandals out. I lay it down for the funeral. The pelican cocks its head. Tilted now. Crooked. The gaze hurts. Hurry up. Move on up. Vertically. An elevation. Motion with limbs. Lateral change.


Suspect words. Gaslight churning. Wiling. Now we leave this world. Now I give.

I rest my head in palms. All this pressure. A pain/pleasure reward. A reward for surviving. Medals all across my chest. The chain hits the wall. Empty the chambers. Chop. I stopped making sense a long time ago.


Negotiate the wall. No omission. Quite evident. A loose hang. Fib. Depleting facts. STFU

No. For real.

Offensive remarks about height. Angles. Type.

Seal it. No front.




An artful dodge. They gorge on the food but feel no hunger. Feet for levitation. Feet for change. Steps for love. Steps away. Destination pride. Pride takes the wheel and washes to the shore.

Jackie walks by the boulders at the airport. A first glance of recognition. A beat of heels. Gloom hits the pavement. Dusted. Sheen breaks rapport.


Jackie is still alive. Play it out. No knots. Ride


A conjunction. A meeting. Combusting. A curve and ellipse. Wild children running opposite the moon. Future freedoms. Break off to the north node. To the realm of this. The five elements melted. A low tide beach in an urban environment. A handle turned. An ace within a sleeve. Ascending with lions. Washed up but bound to the sky. So scarce.


In a field of things.


A young Christopher Walken walks into the arcade.



Tiril Hasselknippe is a visual artist and a writer based between Oslo
and New York, and a new contributor to Sang Bleu.

Rider is a love letter and survival log written for her sculpture show
The Shapers at GrünerlŸkka Kunsthall in Oslo which opened earlier
this summer. (July 11.)




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