28 October—10 December 2016
Opening: 27 October, 6.30pm
Almanac Inn is thrilled to present Echolocation, a solo exhibition by London-based artist Emily Jones, coinciding with the opening of the new space in Via Reggio 13, Turin.
Echolocation delineates a cosmological vision, a communal self-reflection, which aims to locate our position and relation in a shared space - the land of the present. A hybrid landscape is defined by resonances of a multiple body, tracing the paths of the mobilization of affects and memories. Incomplete or transformed, as Echo’s voice, condemned to be multiple but unrecognized, and her body turned into stone.
Reverberations delineate an entity through the contact with its surroundings. Their resonances perform the multiplicity of a fragmented body. Constructed by social and cultural connections and contaminations, its hybrid nature circulates through global and local hierarchies, tracing emotional histories and geographies. The intersections of individual and collective voices constitute the terrain where experience and consciousness take on material, spatial and spiritual form — where a struggle for recognition and visibility defines the constitution of a coherent “self”.
Questioning the western notion which places the self in the body, Echolocation explores how language and rituals, in a religious or shamanic state of being, can redefine contemporary modes of identitarian representation within conflicts and movements between the individual and the collective.
mythologem the center of the World. The contrast between the upper and lower worlds, perhaps most importantly, fabulous contrasts. The connection is implemented differently between these worlds, heaven -length arrows , spears , winged animals, stairs, and wagon. seen in all things, especially the fauna descriptions. mythological superstructure, branches, comply with the birds , middle, trunk, smbakavornere lower on the roots, snakes , frogs , mice , fish , and sometimes bear . differentiate the universe main zones: the upper (celestial kingdom), middle (earthly realm), lower (underworld kingdom), time perception, past-present-future, as well as three parts of the body, head , torso , legs. Vertical viewed from the opposite (top-down-to-air, land -andrashkharh), fire (dry) - water (wet) and other similar mythological characters in which they operate. The second tree on the earth.
Run. Don’t Play Dead.
I’m never gonna fall in line, your future is not mine.’
Your Future Is Not Mine.
the conviction that this planet is unique
Mary was told that she was to be executed the next morning. The executioners knelt before her and asked forgiveness. She replied, "I forgive you with all my heart, for now, I hope, you shall make an end of all my troubles." She was blindfolded with a white veil embroidered in gold, knelt down on the cushion in front of the block, on which she positioned her head, and stretched out her arms. Mary was not beheaded with a single strike. The first blow missed her neck and struck the back of her head. The second blow severed the neck, except for a small bit of sinew, which the executioner cut through using the axe. Afterward, he held her head aloft, at that moment, the auburn tresses in his hand turned out to be a wig and the head fell to the ground, revealing that Mary had very short, grey hair.
Neither fears of hell, nor desires for Heaven influenced the motion. I fled to the name and form, as a present sanctuary. In a gesture of religious transformation cut off three feet of dark silky tresses and thereafter appeared with close cropped hair. This severe look confounded and yet captivated listeners, legendary temper, lustrous eyes and "unbent will's majestic pride. She travelled, often alone, to the Holy Land of Jerusalem. It is impossible for me to describe the ecstasy that filled my soul, my ears, my eyes, my heart.
The body of the young woman was pulled out of the Seine River at the Quai du Louvre in Paris. Since the body showed no signs of violence, suicide was suspected. It has been questioned whether the expression of the face could belong to a drowned person. enigmatic smile, young girl with closed eyes, enlivened by a smile so relaxed and at ease... that one could have believed that she drowned in an instant of extreme happiness. She had never broken a bone during her life.
Here, too, are hills of sparkling crystals, hills of sulphur, hills of glass, hills of cinders and ashes, mountains of every style of architecture, icy or forested, mountains covered with honey-bloom sweet as Hymettus, mountains boiled soft like potatoes and coloured like a sunset sky.
All human beings are born free and equal in rights and dignity
None of us are free until all of us are equal
Text by Emily Jones
The past is woven as a tight knot that must be undone to create the new knot of the looser future, the tight knot of the future past that will have to be undone to create its own loose future future and tight future past. But what of all the topographical time that is spent tying and untying, all the time that is really all the time? The rope fraying candles at both ends, and the inevitable snaps occurring when one point bears too much of the stress too much of the time? The fibrous strands of time that make up the courser strands of time that wind together to become the tendons of the world relaxing and contracting to pull us around the sun and seasons?
Waiting for darkness in the darkness through your eyelids, a tinted window against the pulse of the green flashing light you still can’t turn off, because you still can’t find the source. You thought you’d already buried everything, but something is still beating and it has to be in here somewhere. It’s been six months since you ritualised the radio into a smashed mountain of silver bones, red and green guts tangled on the rust stained linoleum kitchen floor. The neighbours complained about the frequency change. Their dogs couldn’t sleep for ecstatic car alarms. You remember how the knots undid in the moment of impact.
A sun strikes the side of a skyscraper, refracted filtering down lime green light through sticky plain trees, catching the shining intent of a wet dog paw print in freshly excreted concrete that won’t ever dry quite the same way now, as compared to the imagined present where that tree was never planted and that skyscraper never built and that dog never saw that pigeon. In infinite divisibility everything could be a sundial measuring something, even and especially the somethings that are so precise as to be entirely imperceptible to the naked mind’s eye, the razor point between the hourglass and the pink saliva primordial soup. If you know you know, you know. Squinting to see the grains of the objects filtered through their individual and collective knowledge of their own edges, of small death, big life, accidentally sneaking up on someone you loved and worrying about why they couldn’t sense you, why this is still happening after all this time has fallen. I didn’t mean to scare you, I thought I’d made the air warm enough.
You were going to burn the radio, you thought it could be made to be happier, seeping, moist, undifferentiated. But it didn’t feel right enough. After all, we hadn’t burnt the cat when she died, had we? So we buried the former radio shards by the holly tree, next to the former cat, making sure the different bones didn’t touch, yet.
Observing all eyes on the beautiful arachnid corpse left to decompose in the hermetically sealed hub within the infrastructure you so carefully manicure, just don’t call it a coping device or a waste management crisis. Hope is the barrier and the prerequisite, nobody would make could if they didn’t think it would work. A dozen eggs of various sizes, so much space for a theory of mind, eggs and hair and nails and the coating on the end of shoelaces, it’s all the same material to someone, that same person who can’t eat grapes because they remind them of eyeballs, somatic associations know a lot more than we think, than grapes see.
One night I came home and the TV was gone, along with the ancient yellow computer we used to type things we didn’t care about losing. You tried to look distraught for an appropriate reason and amount of time and told me that we’d been burgled. I pretended not to notice the mound in the garden had grown. It’s not about rustic simplicity.
The muscles contract and expand and are left in a cupboard to prove before baking and rise and collapse, it’s fine, really. What is a rural life? Scything is mostly in the hips, it’s a swinging motion, you cut the grass and then swipe it to the side in one motion, like this: swipe, space, mound, swipe, space, mound, swipe, space, mound, until everything is space or mound or or.
It rained and you panicked softly the garden was turn into rivers of mud and all your handiwork would be washed away to the wrong places, all the insides expelled, and so you told me everything, where everything was, where everything was going to be and where you actually needed it to be and why. I asked if our printed photos were okay, and you said they were because they had already happened.
The light bulbs were in bloom, all fired up sticky iridescence on the verge of obsolescence. There was so much life in the breathless terrarium that sustainability wasn’t even a question, just what sustaining. Vase inside a cabinet inside a room inside a house kind of terrarium, little steps towards ivy and black mould and the perfect amount of mildew, we saw it like somewhere between a few million billion and a few trillion million insects in the world, which is to say we didn’t, and it could remain better that way until it couldn’t.
The next day I came home with a broken fax machine I’d found at the end of our street.
‘I hope this is okay, I don’t really understand how this all works yet.’
‘It’s perfect, thank you. Get the shovel.’
You said it made things the right temperature, for a while, when you could hear the words and images hitting the soil underground, next to the cat, next to the holly.
There’s a long long list of names at the boundary of care, shouting over the fence at the other side of the boundary of care, nobody’s lost, we all made our way to the boundary, didn’t we?
Text by Caspar Heinemann
Inside the Giant
Language of Birds
Life on the Mississippi
“Our Mother” prayer
Society Without God
Wheels of Life
Sensorily based knowledge of a universe
O Earth, what changes hast thou seen
Text by Emily Jones
The exhibition is part of Nesxt and is supported by Fondazione CRT.