allsofeatherlightseven
TO THE GROUND TIME IS PLENTY

solo show







A rose leaf, three wheat and a doe,
let's meet next spring, let's walk in slowly.
There he lost the sand (tuft), the next 31
came sad and bitter
A horse's saddle dry as a tomato sheds its flowers, it's nothing but spring Opened window? Storm at home? Ogi..
Who is knocking on the door and wandering around the rooms?
The details of the horse, have you seen how thin his legs are?
What thin, translucent thin skin!
spilled water bottle
How long has this weekend been?
I don't know and it makes me age

- allsofeatherlightseven

In one of the vignettes in which Walter Benjamin describes his childhood, he recalls a butterfly collection that he started but did not finish. [1] Not so much the collection - which, preserved in his childhood room, was apparently able to remind him of itself - but the hunt for these animals, now preserved under glass:They would flutter toward a blossom, hover over it. My butterfly net upraised, I stood waiting only for the spell that the flowers seemed to cast on the pair of wings to have finished its work, when all of a sudden the delicate body would glide off sideways with a gentle buffet ing of the air, to cast its shadow—motionless as before— over another flower, which just as suddenly it would leave without touching.No matter how hard young Walter tried to sneak upon the butterfly unnoticed, it seemed to sense the danger it was in and flew away towards the next flower, leaving the hunter empty handed. Despite the insect‘s slight build, its sinuous and somewhat awkward flight curve, the little guy could neither outwit it nor capture it with his dexterity. Walter, amazed at this intelligence, began to observe it more and more closely, trying to imagine what it was feeling, how it was experiencing its world...Between us, now, the old law of the hunt took hold: the more I strove to conform, in all the fibers of my be ing, to the animal—the more butterfly-like I became in my heart and soul—the more this butterfly itself, in everything it did, took on the color of human volition; and in the end, it was as if its capture was the price I had to pay to regain my human existence.Little Benjamin caught his victim, who was now fluttering hopelessly in the net. As if woken up from a trance, he looked around and surveyed the hunting ground: the trampled grass and flowers were evidence of the fierce struggle that had just taken place. His surprise at the damage probably stemmed from the fact that he had little recollection of how it had happened, and yet he felt that something in him had changed:On that laborious way back, the spirit of the doomed creature entered into the hunter. From the foreign language in which the butterfly and the flowers had come to an understanding before his eyes, he now derived some precepts. His lust for blood had diminished; his confidence was grown all the greater.This vignette by Benjamin is not only a description of a childhood memory, but also says something about memories and dreams in general. The elusive butterfly here becomes a promise of happiness. It seems to be within reach, passing through the fingers like a spectrum at the decisive moment; to catch a butterfly, you must become a butterfly yourself. Perhaps this is why dreams and memories, so sweet and tempting to get lost in, become frightening and even cruel when they begin to penetrate reality. Is it not the case that we cherish them as long as we keep our distance from them? Memories that are woven into the fabric of reality are terrifying, and dreams that have come true are often bitter and disappointing.It is this tension that holds the fabric of this show together. The poetic work of the duo allsofeatherlightseven appears at first glance private, unreadable, and inhospitable. The subtle narrative cues seduce the viewer, leaving them to wander in the thickness of allogisms, contradictions and oxymorons. Indeed, the figurative drawings, childlike texts and abstract sculptural objects that resemble the characters of folk tales seem to promise that they will take the viewer to another world - a more naïve, lighter, more honest world - and yet, they break this promise immediately. At the heart of the world created by the artists lies a harsh dissonance between the magical, utopian imagination and the prosaic and ruthless reality. The folkloric characters created by the artists, such as the Little Sparrow, seem to be trying to get away from the everyday life around them, but are brought back to the ground before they can get up.

We can then ask – Where are the flowers born?
Born in someone's head. Each flower possesses someone’s thoughts! Flowers have much to teach us. They are lovers just like us. The sun is there – for them. They love the sun, and the sun knows it. That is why the sun is still there! It knows that it is loved and needed. We must love flowers, they are fragile trapezoids – colourful, beautiful. Because of them, we have places to go; They have given us paths to walk on. ^[2]