KiB inviterer tilbake: Eirik Senje – en utstilling i Atriet på Kunstskolen i Bergen
Lørdag kl. 12.00 -17.00
Søndag kl.12.00 -17.00
Utstillingen, «Parasol», er en del av utstillingsprogrammet til KiB hvor publikum kan oppleve utstillinger med tidligere studenter, som er under utdanning, nyetablerte eller mer etablerte kunstnere.
Eirik Senje arbeider tverrfaglig, hvor både tekst, tegning, maleri, skulptur og installasjon er en del av hans kunstneriske praksis.
Arbeidene til Senje kan opptre kryptiske i møte med publikum, som om de holder på en hemmelighet, eller tilhører et univers som operer med sitt eget språk, symbolikk, sine egne regler og logikk.
Utstillingstekstene kan oppleves som en slags prolog til verkene, og utstillingen som en manifestasjon av kunstnerens stille monolog og tankestrøm.
Arbeidene hans varierer i uttrykk, teknikk og omfang. Som bruddstykker i et fragmentert narrativ, forteller de samlet en historie som oppleves ulik for hver betrakter.
Arbeidene hans har blant annet blitt vist på Galleri K, WIELS Project Room, Kunstnerforbundet, Kunsthall Oslo, Norsk Billedhoggerforening, Momentum Biennalen 2019: The Emotional Exhibition (F15, Moss), Norsk Skulpturbiennale 2017 (Vigelandmuseet, Oslo), Kunsthall Oslo (2017), Tegnebiennalen 2016. I 2019 var Senje artist-in-residence ved WIELS Residency Programme (Brussel). Eirik Senjes arbeider er innkjøpt av Nasjonalmuseet, Oslo kommunes kunstsamling, og Christen Sveaas’ kunstsamling.
It encroached upon me. Encroaches. I couldn’t say when or to what end, or even how or by which chain of events it began – or became I should say, rather.
Indeed, it had arisen in me but gradually; not welling up in me, not like a storm, or a bursting forth from the ground of something like a source; but subtly – insidiously even – like damp in a basement. I never had any say in it, as far as I can remember.
And when in fact it had arisen, and become, as it were, fact, I had become aware of this arising in me, only after said fact and its consequences.
But during the times leading up to that moment…
Which is not right, I don’t think…
No, there was no ‘moment’, per se.
And even had I thought, or even believed, it would have made no difference at all to that reckoning.
‘Times’, I say…
And regardless, as it stood, it had arisen in me, and I had spoken the words, not knowing if they had left my lips or when, seeing how these were now but memories.
In which, for obvious reasons, I put little stock,
However,
Memories, that is, seemingly. Very indulgently, I even say this twice.
The realities they contain, be they based in externalities or not,
Realities…
Realities? Can that be right? Is that what it says here?
No, I think not.
They had come to me ‘as real’, in the sense of, being as they are, delineations of the imaginable – ‘my’ imaginable I should say, rather; not anyone else’s. Not as far as I can tell. Mine own, beyond which my shoes will refuse to take me. And these are My shoes; they belong to Me alone.
And I say this knowing that someone may very well pry them from my corpse one day, after I cease, then to put them to their own uses, poorly fitted though they may be. And I say it also knowing how they (the shoes) make my feet very sore, which may indeed indicate that perhaps they are not my own shoes after all, seeing how ill they fit me. And knowing how, I say it also, this raises further questions, by which some may find cause for alarm. I not. I cannot let this concern me. I will speak of it no more.
And anyhow, the words are lost to me now.
All I remember – if indeed I ‘remember’… but let us not harp now on that point, indulging in it as if it were something sweet and succulent,
Remembrance: The faintest trace of the taste they left on their passing my lips.
The words.
‘Words’ I say,
Thinking of them as words; even knowing how they may indeed have been something else altogether?
That is to say. An echoing. Like ripples on a pond. From the landing of a bird perhaps, or several birds, or the skipping of a stone, or the sounding of a bell. The ‘words’, as I name them, not knowing if they were words or something else, for which ‘words’ are but the mode I employ, analogous to the thing they purportedly refer, which is its own hurdle by itself and not something to be taken lightly. And, let me assure you, that I do not.
‘Thinking’, I say.
‘These are like words’
I say
‘These are like these words’
And I say no more; as far as I can remember, this is all I ever say.
All I can say?
All I dare say?
Like this, I put them forth; like the second sounding of a bell.
They pass my lips…
And then the taste.
I think this happened, or something like it; or something, at the very least. That’s all I’m told, sometimes, that there was something. Something like something like this. They won’t let me in on what, sometimes. Other times, they may be more specific, but this comes with its own set of … questions?
And on the tongue, it must have been, surely… the taste. But the lips also, which having to be passed of course, at least by some accounts; or even in the alternate case; which is not purely theoretical I say; not, and not even then, merely incidental in this regard. It should be said. And so I mention it therefore, that they as well, the lips, would likely have been involved, after a fashion, and should not be left out, even as I have mentioned them previously and by my own reckoning several times.
Like in a kiss? Does that make sense? Or like licking a battery to see if it’s live?
Can that be right?
No, I think not.
No, that’s something else.
Forget all about that.
But the taste, at least, I would describe to you, even as I fail to do the other things. I could do so with ease, it would be my privilege.
Eirik Senje 2024
