Exhibition Text

Maybe, yearning is thrown from a machine at 94km/h and into the yap. The yap of a column, cushioning with a soft padding and swallowing. Packed in fluffy synthetics...
– I am not the yearning, I am a tennis ball.
So. A tennis ball. A tennis ball is fired with a speed of 94km/h and slung in the yap. Not in mine. In the yap of a column. I position myself next to the column and imagine that I were it. A static object made of metal which reflects. It is flunged at with tennis balls in random intervals. It has no desire to defend itself against it, nor to protest in any shape or form. So, it consumes the balls apathetically. On the inside - so in its foundation? - the static object is soft and flexible. To reduce the speed of the projectile is of no issue. For it to become the target, is its function.
Its vis à vis, the other column, shelters a ball machine. It reflects nothing and whines. Suddenly it gets spooked by the power of the machine and trembles. Apparently, it has little effect on the tennis ball spitting impulse of its integrated mechanical companion. Constantly tense.
The mirror column across imitates it. It shakes a little bit with the consumption of every ball. Shows its counterpart empathy and also always a little bit contempt:
One column: «Doing the right things.»
The other column: «Doing things right.»
The first column: «Having things done by the right people.» The other column: «Doing things with the right attitude.»
I first opt for everything and then mainly against the attitude. Standing in between the columns I turn my back to my reflection and stare at the other. I look the ball machine in the eye. The pressure that it takes to rotate the pressing rolls groans towards me. Then I discover the orange ball in the feeder, it is almost pressed to the point.
Text by Aglaia Brändli