Drawings, a poem and sculptures supported by stones, these stones are imagined but also correspond to the original size of the stones I encountered along the way. By sticking to the original dimensions of the stones, I was able to remain sincere towards the landscape in which I found myself. I did not took the stones with me, but preserved them in my memory. In this way I could alienate myself from the landscape. From the memories I started drawing, sculpting and writing to make the partly transformed landscape physical again, like a fictionalized realness: an acted life form becoming a real experience. 

By approaching the landscape from different media, I can question its authenticity. By working through the media it feels like I can direct the landscape but only if I stay in the role of the director. 

I see the exhibition space as a space where fiction and real become inseparable because the fiction can be really experienced through its surfaces: the ability of objects how they stimulate you to participate in the fiction or new life form.

It slumbers in my throat causes
hands halfway open generates a shiver
tries to go down in my tunnel

Reach out
slide down

Hovering close-up
Look up
Go up

The shiver it breaks and there

the dirt

I enter a quarry and my voice shatters into goosebumps when I look down
There are chunks of vibrations each of them can be put on all sorts of ears
Deeper into the dirt

To stumble over ears near you is like:

when eyes are getting darker in the rhythm of the falling sun

the ocean becomes a disappearing blue mirror

Still do float fluently

Smoothly stiffend fall deep within the
soothing solidified sea

There within
collecting pieces of spheres from the tree cavity on the land

I have deepened the germs and packaged them

inside the bulldozed roads there are

globes that float on ocean

globes that will awake a solar eclipse when you

immensely plough in a field with silhouettes

The field with silhouettes but faded

in black they are looking for what is necessary

Would anyone have saved me as a solar eclipse?

(deeply bent with long legs)

I rush past your time and think about the photo that was never taken

therefore you leave a trace behind

Just like a spiral where things come together but twisted:
a toilet bowl blinded by white ceramic on the black asphalt
surrounded by puzzle pieces next to your house
lies the origin in the flower

I suppose

before the flower was picked its surface glistened and

its leaves as soft as polished marble

Maybe this flower was meant to be on the streets

to soften its surface