The conceptual structure of our time together is dissolving. Though that might be the case on multiple levels these days, I am only referring to the fact that this season at the LungA School has ended, the students have left and we are left here for a while until that time in the early fall when the molecules come together again in some new, unexpected form.
This season has felt like the end of the beginning. The school has been going for three years now and in this period it has moved from being an idea and into its own skin, finding its language, growing its roots. But the end of the beginning means the beginning of something else. And that is exciting! I have a feeling it will be spectacular!
A few weeks ago we announced the gift that we have gotten from Síldarvinnslan: an old 1100 sqm. net factory that we will turn into an incredible work- and studiospace over the next years. We will start this summer with building studios intended for a group of students at our new program ‘175’, an unofficial master program, a program for trained artists that takes place from October to late March.
And finally, this summer is also the time where we will move the existing studio for our program ’84’ into new facilities in the middle of town, but this we will tell more about when we have some photos!
Enjoy the spring and summer! And perhaps we’ll see you at the LungA Festival in July!
And it’s official! Síldarvinnslan hf. has donated the old net factory to the LungA School (THANK YOU!) and we’ll turn it into a completely incredible studio and workspace over the next years. This space will also serve as the main workspace for the students in our new program ‘175’!
We’ll update you all with videos and pictures from the place soon!
Week 10 – new beginnings and near endings; practice practice
waking up before dawn & seeing the town from afar lit up by nightlight, day-glo sun rise and soundworks stuffed in the back of a jeep. lip-sync karaoke and hands submerged in plaster. paper-making and jeans hanging like limp limbs from ceilings. frozen shrimp melting onto yellow and hanging from threads and woven in nude pink flesh. bleeding knuckles and a painting exorcised in the fish factory. intimate invitations and discussions over last supper. slow speed fast pace, speed nails and a mango in crisis.
Laughing on the floor and driving through the night. A culmination of the weeks that have passed. A week of cherishing, a week of LungA.
We are at a precipice in time, the potential for collapse feels imminent. Economic systems start to crack at the seams. Political systems become closed-meaning ideologies. People are displaced. Environmental tipping points inch closer. A point at which there is no turning back. We disconnect from the earth, that which is made of us, creating distractions that separate us from animals and nature. Cybernetic arm creation. Digital diet. The echo of bird song and waterfalls dimming to factory fusion, grating of machines and spinning of car wheels. We excavate and drill and dig with fervour into soft greenfields. We carve the blood from the earth and spit it out into plastic toy-petrol fume-pollution mask-selfie stick-sensibility.
We are consumers and we are free. We are consumers and we are free to consume. Accelerating beyond control, accelerating beyond vision. How do we locate our place within this mess we call reality, how do we relocate within the family of things? How do we break down the certainties; capitalism, the neoliberal ideologies of individualism and career-paths. How do we even fathom the certainty of any given reality, when news outlets can often be political agendas and money machines. An uncomfortable notion, an in-between stage, on the threshold of the known and the un. There we can hide or there we can thrive, and often from the chaos rises revolutionary ideas.
We spent the week discussing the storied nature of reality, unraveling the truths and considering how to exist within these structures. More so than considering answers to the unsolveable we posed questions; how to create our own narrative to live by. How to find meaning in simply being, rather than constantly striving. We spoke and we considered, we made a chapter a day and we wrote a book in a week. Ask The Fortune Horse.
In week 8, Laura Tack was joined by Jeppe Kondrup Adelborg to lead Just A Matter of Fluidity, a workshop grounded in what seemed to be mystery. Surprises were constant and kept us on our toes. The weather, too, constantly changing; inflicting change in mood and pace throughout the week.
As the snow was thick on the ground, bodies were thrown into cold waters and heated by fire. The week began with a swim and ended with a dance. Activities which were commonplace throughout.
Finding a new home in The Old Net Factory, we put our hands to use and active minds (momentarily) to rest. The foundations were set in frames, both inside and out. We abandoned impulses, spent mornings silently. Waiting, pondering, observing. Sounds of shuffling slowly becoming part of the furniture. Sitting in the sun, stationary.
We worked in colour, in motion, with waves, to music. We were thrown into situations, into group performances – encouraged to work with limitations, encouraged to take ownership of the school, encouraged to motivate and manipulate. Joined by friends in the afternoons, tennis with a headset, edible surprises after lunch and meetings by the coffee bar at obscure times. 14.07pm.
Piling into the car. Painting on the windows. Sun on the rocks. Navigating the unknown. Dancing in a boxing ring, dancing off the cold, dancing dressed in silver and a 130% Space Aquarium.
Lying in the sun outside the Gas Station; a breakfast of curly fries and coffee.
A walk through snow capped mountains with wind in our faces. Circling roads which upon turning reveal more of the landscape.
The first sip of coffee and freshly baked buns. Heat under toes. Book Club. A talk from a wizard and an insight into ancient rituals connecting us to the earth and the elements and with our bodies. Watching a labrador gallop home through a blanket of white. He followed us to the cliffs edge. Standing on the black rocks and watching the waves crashing underneath. A hint of yellow moss peppers the rocks. The sea a golden blue, frothing at the seams. Creamy brown and white like the head of a cappuccino. Around our heads and over the mountains fly flocks of birds. Their noise and chatter a calm chaos. We are in the bird cave. We can hear the waves. Hold us close to the earth and clutch us to the sky.
Can we simply lay this sight to memory? Walk towards the house made of red. Landscape of white and blue and grey and brown on white and white and white. Glimmer of light.