Copyright 2015

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f i n g e r o f g o d
2011-2014
Laserjet Print on Transparency made in conversation with Zoe Marden
1350 x 440 mm

 
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Virtually Me, curated by Tiffany Zabludowicz, Vanity Projects, New York City & Miami, 9 November - 3 December 2016. Works by: Abri de Swardt, Amalia Ulman, Casey Jane Ellison, Charles Richardson, Chloe Wise, David Blandy, Ed Fornieles, Florian Meisenberg, Hannah Perry, Helen Benigson, Jon Rafman, Katie Torn, Keren Cytter, Leo Gabin, Michael Manning, Rachel Maclean, Rashaad Newsome, Tameka Norris

 
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Leak, Cosmos Carl, Online, 11 - 25 November 2016.

What about language? Do all eleven official languages have the words needed to cover the Commission? A Zulu-speaking colleague loses his temper: ‘Of course! And if the words aren’t there, we’ll make them up.’ Make them up? He provides a list:

hit squad: abasocongi – neck-twisters
massacre: isibhicongo – crushed down
serial killer: umbulali onequngu – addicted killer
politics: ezombusazwe – matters about the ruling of the land
right-winger: untamo-lukhuni – stiff-necked
third force: ingal’enoboya – a hairy arm
ambush: lalela unyendale – lying down waiting to do an evil act

‘Hairy arm?’ I ask.

‘During third force activities,’ he explains, ‘people said a cuff sometimes moved too high up, and the exposed arm was always hairy – that means belonging to a white man.’

-----

Is it possible to forget and be quite sure at the same time? It should be stated that there are no life universals. I gave up English Studies III as an extra subject, so amongst others I still have copies of Wide Sargasso Sea and Portrait of a Lady even though I haven’t read them yet. I guess being a student isn’t a temporal designation. Not in the same way that checking in at Standing Rock is. A photograph does the rounds of a brick flung during the Fees Must Fall protests into some shatterproof window of Truth Coffee in Cape Town, bisecting the glass above Zapper, EatOut and TripAdvisor stickers. One does not simply mark oneself as safe during a revolution. At any moment there are 20 million people ordering flat whites in America. On Easter Island the Moai monoliths have bodies beneath their heads, covered up from half a millennia of erosion. This makes me think of moments of enacted near burial, head above ground: Hans Strydom captive and doe-eyed in The Gods Must Be Crazy II, Brendon Daniels in Nicola Hanekom’s play Babel, his head mostly encased beneath a bucket shadowed above the red soil, and Untitled (face in dirt) by David Wojnarowicz, lips flaring at the nearness of death – to be able to resuscitate such a face! Growing up I used to be dismayed about a certain twee sentiment presiding over a display about a His Master’s Voice gramophone in the regional museum. Now I do wonder about the image of the family pet peering into the horn, if the recording wettens the dog’s nose. Could the scent of his master’s breath be transmitted synaesthetically? Perhaps nothing is playing, and his head nuzzled in the conical hollow reverberates the nectar of his own bark. What if turntable needles where to be substituted by sharpened nails, then stumped fingers, raw bone, finger by finger, hand by hand, wrist to wrist, and vinyl groves were to turn bloodied arteries at the service of a sounding. On an Afrikaans poetry blog someone writes in reference to a recent burning of whether you would die to save a piano. But would a piano die for you?

-----

Leak is a project for Cosmos Carl by Abri de Swardt pre-releasing segments from Ridder Thirst LP, a double record by De Swardt and a host of contributors to be launched in 2017. Through textual, sonic and musical arrangements, the work responds to campus and the state of tertiary education with disassociation and extra-curricular desire, particularly at a time of the ends of Rainbowism, shut downs, state capture, and calls to mass redress and zero compromise. It is localised from the vantage point of Stellenbosch University, South Africa, where De Swardt completed two degrees and taught Visual Studies.

-----

Quote from Antjie Krog, Country of my Skull, 1998, Random House Publishers.

 
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Daata Editions, curated by David Gryn, Frieze Art Fair, London, 5 - 9 October 2016. Works by: Keren Cytter, Melanie Eckersley, Hannah Ford, Ed Fornieles, Jasmine Johnson, Scott Lyman, Scott Mason, Ariana Reines, Daniel Swan, Abri de Swardt and Artie Vierkant

 
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Off to Mahagonny, curated by Canan Batur, Rye Lane, London, 4 - 9 October 2016. Works by: Mette Boel, Jack Brindley, Ting-Ting Cheng, Sung Eun Chin, Jemma Egan, Bob Eikelboom, Justin Fitzpatrick, Carl Gent, David Horvitz, Sophie Hoyle, Lito Kattou, Olu David Ogunnaike, Andy Nizinskyj, Abri de Swardt, Andrew Sunderland, Susannah Stark, Thomas Yeomans and Ittah Yoda

 
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Blend the Acclaim of your Chant with the Timbrels, curated by George Vasey, Jerwood Staging Series, Jerwood Space, London, 12 July 2016. Works by: Beth Kettel, Anneke Kampman, Josh Wilson, Abri de Swardt, Quentin Lannes and Shona Macnaughton

 
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I Never Read, Alma Martha, Kaserne Basel and Junges Theater Basel, Basel, 15 - 18 June 2016. Works by: Mitchell Messina, Lucienne Bestall, Julia Rosa Clark, Bonolo Kavula, Vactic + Jake Singer, Abri de Swardt, Bridget Baker + Bianca Baldi, Bronwyn Katz, Gitte Moller, Bert Pauw, Raees Saiet and Swain Hoogervorst

 
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Daata Editions Season Two, curated by David Gryn, previewed at Independent, Brussels, 20 - 23 April, launching online and at NADA, New York, 5 May 2016. Works by: Larry Achiampong, Sofie Alsbo, Jake Chapman, Graham Dolphin, Thora Dolven Balke, Melanie Eckersley, Casey Jane Ellison, Tracey Emin, Laura Focarazzo, Hannah Ford, Ed Fornieles, Yung Jake, Kate Jessop, Jasmine Johnson, Joachim Koester & Stefan A. Pedersen, Sara Ludy, Scott Lyman, Michael Manning, Scott Mason, Jillian Mayer, C.O. Moed, Jonathan Monaghan, Rashaad Newsome, Camille Norment, Tameka Norris, Quayola, Hannah Quinlan & Rosie Hastings, Jon Rafman, Scott Reeder, Ariana Reines, Jacolby Satterwhite, Julian Scordato, John Skoog, Daniel Swan, Abri de Swardt, Katie Torn, Saya Woolfalk, Artie Vierkant, Susanne Wiegner and Antoinette Zwirchmayr

 
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SPF Matthew Barney, White Cubicle, London, 26 November 2015.

Dearest MB

It is hard to sit here at your bedside, thinking about the last year or so, and the recent sequence of dreams I have had. I remember when I had to take you here, and you cried into my lap in the back of the taxi. Plumes of warm mist frosted the car windows, and I would finger chalked creamy things against them, like ‘in a world without sun we can be heroes’ and ‘grapefruit eyes’ that lumber and melt at the same time.

Your arm cliff scarred from breaking through some glass door long ago makes it dawn upon me once more that things can only be forestalled in New Yorker cartoons, like when you told me over some pedagogical lunch that you hated the sea, after the admission about weeping beneath the hairy swag of baleen plates at the Natural History Museum, when all the organs gradually faded into transparency leaving a gleaming skeleton gleaming like ivory that slowly revolved until it became dust.

There were the razor backed dreams, the sulphur bottom dreams, the one in which you appear at my door and say “I’ll be back in 45 minutes”; the one where you designed this wedding invitation for your brother depicting a quicksilver snail on a glacial wave with the pencilled names of your exes, including me; and then of course the one about my great-great-great-grandfather, the shoemaker and whaler from Nairn, who was part of the 93rd Highland Regiment that took the Cape of Storms in 1806, giving me a blue dressing gown. He had thirteen kids, like you his testicles weighed one hundred pounds (the fullness of plastic bags beneath my palms), and his entire family could fit into his lighthouse mouth.

Keith and David came to see me the other morning, and gave me this pirated copy of that forget-me-nots film. We yapped in salvoes of clicks about early CGI, and how you could have been in 'Fireworks', as in: “Your physicality obliterated what came before, what we never had”. Now that I am writing this to you I realise that I am sitting between the ears of my own body. Nothing comes from my mouth, and your body keeps waning. This is the most important event of my life and my mouth can’t form words and maybe I’m the one who needs words, maybe I’m the one who needs reassurance and all I can do is raise my hands from my sides in helplessness and say “All I want is some sort of grace.”

Someone enters the room; I look up from the paper

- I have bought the Creepy Crawly

- the insect?

- No, the pool suction thing

- Oh

- for his genitals

Leave me a note to say where you're going Matthew, so I can clutch it to my breast at your funeral and think of how we could have been salty dogs,

Abri

*

SPF Matthew Barney by Abri de Swardt is the tenth of 11 exhibitions at White Cubicle in 2015 to celebrate our 10th Anniversary. This anniversary schedule includes exhibitions and projects by Adriano Costa, Milovan Farronato, Celia Hempton, Joao Laia, Kiki Mazzucchelli, Lucy McKenzie & Josefine Reisch, Jacopo Miliani, Jacqui Potato, Charlotte Prodger & Flo Brooks, Irene Revell (Electra), Luiz Roque, Liliana Sanguino, Visual AIDS, John Walter, Steven Warwick (Heatsick) and Camilla Wills
DJ for the evening: @Gaybar

 
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Bloomberg New Contemporaries, selected by Hurvin Anderson, Jessie Flood-Paddock and Simon Starling, Institute of Contemporary Arts, London, 25 November 2015 - 25 January 2016. Works by Sïan Astley, Kevin Boyd, Lydia Brockless, U. Kanad Chakrabarti, James William Collins, Andrei Costache, Julia Curtin, Abri de Swardt, Melanie Eckersley, Jamie Fitzpatrick, Justin Fitzpatrick, Hannah Ford, Sophie Giller, Richard Hards, Juntae TJ Hwang, Jasmine Johnson, Tomomi Koseki, Hilde Krohn Huse, Pandora Lavender, Jin Han Lee, Hugo López Ayuso, Beatrice-Lily Lorigan, Scott Lyman, Hanqing Ma & Mona Yoo, Scott Mason, Oliver McConnie, Mandy Niewöhner, Hamish Pearch, Neal Rock, Conor Rogers, Katie Schwab, Tim Simmons, David Cyrus Smith, Francisco Sousa Lobo, Aaron Wells, Morgan Wills and Andrea Zucchini

 
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Bloomberg New Contemporaries, selected by Hurvin Anderson, Jessie Flood-Paddock and Simon Starling, Backlit, One Thoresby Street and Primary, Nottingham, 18 September - 31 October 2015. Works by Sïan Astley, Kevin Boyd, Lydia Brockless, U. Kanad Chakrabarti, James William Collins, Andrei Costache, Julia Curtin, Abri de Swardt, Melanie Eckersley, Jamie Fitzpatrick, Justin Fitzpatrick, Hannah Ford, Sophie Giller, Richard Hards, Juntae TJ Hwang, Jasmine Johnson, Tomomi Koseki, Hilde Krohn Huse, Pandora Lavender, Jin Han Lee, Hugo López Ayuso, Beatrice-Lily Lorigan, Scott Lyman, Hanqing Ma & Mona Yoo, Scott Mason, Oliver McConnie, Mandy Niewöhner, Hamish Pearch, Neal Rock, Conor Rogers, Katie Schwab, Tim Simmons, David Cyrus Smith, Francisco Sousa Lobo, Aaron Wells, Morgan Wills and Andrea Zucchini

 
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Sightings, curated by Amy Watson, Kwazulu Natal Society of Arts, Durban, 18 August - 6 September 2015. Works by Bridget Baker, Bianca Baldi, Adam Broomberg & Oliver Chanarin, Abri de Swardt, Uriel Orlow and Kemang Wa Lehulere

 
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Poetics of Relation, curated by Bettina Malcomess and Uriel Orlow, LiveInYourHead, Geneva, 13 -30 May 2015. Works by Simon Acevedo, Denise Bertschi, Antonia Brown, Érik Bullot, Nolan Oswald Dennis, Leonard de Muralt, Abri de Swardt, Ravi Govender, Paul Guian, Ciel Grommen, Mbali Khoza, Murray Kruger, Bettina Malcomess, Nare Mokgotho, Michelle Monareng, Uriel Orlow, Philip Pilekjaer, Nathalie Rebholz, Julie Sas, Tali Serruya, Mounia Steimer, and Nicoline van Harskamp

Text from performance Valley Shy (for DBS)

I
Soprano

Here I stand, in the veiling of the sun, a survivor, unclouded by consciousness, remorse, or delusions of morality, thinking of the melancholy and extroverted luxury of having to consume the world without having to participate in it, such as aurochs and angels do. Here, seated sultanically above the moons I recall certain moments, let us call them icebergs in paradise, which I sing into a walkie-talkie on the Rocky Ridge.

[stepping upon a platform, speaking into a walkie-talkie, a movement repeated for all sections in italics]
I long to hear you, if you want to know where I’m going, where I’m going soon.

An avalanche of multiform elsewheres that starts with a sneeze that started with a nasal spray of celestial vapidity – the incubation of a nostril, of a cavernous wanton nostril glazed with the cherubic cornucopia of the air where no one walks of the air above the line where trees stop growing a final line of retroactive growth of the retroactive air that declares in lunar reggae that this nostril is the throne of all future knowledge.

Aw-a-a-a-ay, I’m bound away. Aw-a-a-a-ay, we’re bound away.

Here I stand, on the prime vertical on the prime dorsal, admiring the purity of listening to the sound of the boys when they shower, the purity of the shepherd awaiting with a harp, a lactose intolerant harp, below as the calves bell their way, their lactose intolerant way, to the village, the purity of the village that made a pack, long long ago, to only speak to each other in whispers and to muffle all other sounds. The bell dongs and the violin strings and the harp cords prudently mummified in fresh lactose intolerant gauze, musical fingers quivering with epidermal purity. A boy steps into a guitar given to him on his twelfth birthday, and the village whispers about the soul of his lactose intolerant sized thirteen foot, of his other lactose intolerant Adidas slip slop white sock wet on the sledge path foot, the feeling of snow new like slush puppies like memoirs of a geisha like his brothers asking him if his spectacle frames spelt out literally G-A-Y, the G for the left eye, the A for the bridge of the nose, the Y for the right eye.

I’m going up a yonder.

And the year is 2000, I have bought my first and only pair of sunglasses, a singular historical incident, divinely pre-elected, ovular and Alpine with iced blue lenses, a type of light blue reserved for the directors cut of a late 21st century biopic on Suri Cruise or someone else sanctified like Princess Charlotte Elizabeth Diana, for which some type of frosted plastic bookends a life reserved in the sun. And around the advent of the male body, the sunglasses’ arms embracing my cranium in want of predestination double penetration trepanation, becomes a port key to standing alone in Lesotho in a land locked land village singing

Herr, Erhore Uns.

II
Second Soprano

Here I stand, in the veiling of the sun, thinking of the spinal music of touching on sledges and in water slides, since the ancestry and posterity of Grief go further than the ancestry and posterity of Joy. A bus of mostly twelve year olds stops against a slope like the nose of the security guard beneath the Venus de Milo in September in Paris twice without you. They disembark and together weep with merman tears for two bodies insufferably disconnected like momentum toy ostriches, blue-dyed, pecking away at a round table on a course returning to earth.

Without him, the river’s just a river.

I sing with what might be a voice, you son of a bitch, a turbulent, locked and floating voice, like the one that never can pronounce my own name, like the one that in the year 2000 made the larynx kangaroo in a zoo in Basel where I was vetoed for a date with a maximal girl and thus inaugurated into the antediluvian order of the passion of the cut sleeve, of the emperor’s bedfellow asleep, of the forearm death grip sensitivity.

Tomorrow shall be my dancing day
I would my true love did so chance
To see the legend of my play
To call my true love to my dance.

III
Alto

Here I stand, in the red sun of desire and decision, thinking of your chasms furrowed with fugitive memories too prehistoric for words. Our bones are bent outwards, lapsing into paralysis in a night without candles as we rolled all over the floor, in each other’s arms, like two huge helpless children. He was naked and goatish under his robe, and I felt suffocated as he rolled over me in the oolalah black. I rolled over him. We rolled over me. They rolled over him. We rolled over us.

With the pie-eyed piper blowing, while the muscatel was flowing, all the cats were go, go, going down below.

A man pretending to be a goat is cycling down the road, bleating, tooting, kidding, the red chakra reading road zebras from Brussels frequent vexed. Here on this dead end road there is something commensurate between seeing Berni Searle’s 'Snow White', a single channel projection of flour and water dripping unto the nude spot lit body of Searle upon an enlightenment, universalised, singular stage, her kneading the mixture into a dumbfounded dough; between seeing this culinary body being used as a shadow theatre, her body caressed by flowery teenage fingers, her parts pinched, groped and fisted in what could only be described as a rape of the image, a breaking of the bread; so there is something commensurate about this spectral rape and a woman in front of me praying over me at Pentecost when I was eight, prophesying that I, 1997 I, will one day be president of this goddamn land.

Tootin’ on his trumpet loud and mean
Suddenly a voice said, “In the dark I hear a call
Calling me there.
Go forth Daddy!
Flip your wings and fly to Daddy!
Take a dive and swim to Daddy!
Hit the floor and crawl to Daddy!”
Cause when the seas and mountains fall
I will go there

And sans kisses I demand a refund – I ought to be all alone in the world. Just me, DeeBeeeeS, and no other living thing. No sun, no culture, myself naked on a high rock; no storms, no snow, no banks, no money, no time, no breath. Then at last, I wouldn’t be afraid.

[play The Lonesome Valley by Fairfield Four]

 
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Ridder Thirst and other readings one should ignore, ALMA MARTHA, Cape Town, 6 May 2015. Works by: Rachel Collet, Abri de Swardt, Alida Eloff, Open Arts, Artappil Skilly, and Lize van Robbroeck

 
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ECOCIDE, hosted and curated by @Gaybar in collaboration with Jennifer Chan and Leah Schrager, and Linda Stupart, Rye Lane Studios, London, 10 March 2015. Works by: Georges Jacotey, Sarah Schulman & Jim Hubbard, Jesse Darling, Hannah Black, Sam Kenswill, Jala Wahid, Claire Kurylowski, Sam Thottington, Natasha Lall, Pauline Boudry & Renate Lorenz, Eli Leven, Athi-Patra Ruga, Steven Cohen, Caspar Jade Heinemann, and Abri de Swardt

 
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Ridder Thirst and other readings + Thumbs-Up, Sober & Lonely Institute for Contemporary Art, Johannesburg, 25 February 2015. Works by: Abri de Swardt, Alida Eloff, Pierre Fouché, Nathan Gates, Athi Mongezeleli Joja, Machteld Rullens, Hentie van der Merwe, and Ernst van der Wal

 
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Men Gather, in Speech..., curated by Sophia Yadong Hao, Cooper Gallery, Duncan Jordanstone College of Art & Design, Dundee, 22 January - 21 February 2015. Works by: Emma Charles, Rose English and Abri de Swardt
Rose English Plato's Chair (1985) Courtesy of the artist and Locus+

 
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Dear Luxembourg (yours, bucktoothed grl), curated by Alberto García del Castillo with the company of Sophie Jung, Nosbaum Reding Projects, Luxembourg, 15 January - 7 March 2015. Works by: Emma Hart, Germaine Hoffmann, Sophie Jung, Jenny Moore, Athena Papadopoulos, Abri de Swardt, and Alice Theobald
b-uh-leach (1.1.1.9.9.9.9.9.9.9.9.9.)
scan collage

 
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Man Magnet Melancholy, curated by Elene Abashidze, Sarah Boulton, Jesse Darling, Sophie Jung, and Julia Marchand, Ffrigidaire, London, 10 November – 9 December 2014. Works by: Abri de Swardt and Zoe Marden.

And then they saw they were naked, and it started snowing. Between the flakes he could feel heat emanate from the dark places almost insulated by hair. He saw some bison grazing in the blizzard. He sharpened a branch and neared the herd in the heaping frost. With his approach, some ran ecstatically off a cliff, thawing mid air. He managed to impale one, severing the head. The sensation of warm blood gushing from the head held aloft between them, red streaming over their chests, provided meteorological respite. He skinned this bison, and draped the fatty flesh over himself. This was his first response to shame.
He left her there, in the garden, in the sleet. He decided to devote himself to a diasporic existence between tectonic plates. His inventory was as follows:

box 1 Clothes(jackets)Shoes(cleaned)FramedPicturesMedicationBicycleLockandHelmutProjectorMountGlassLightDuvetBlanket,
box 2 StationaryPorcelainFilesHangers(wooden)BedLampPostcardsPlasticHoldersClothes,
box 3 & 4 FilesandBooks

In the Northern summer, he would work as an iceman on Gavdos Island, in the Southern summer, he would work as an iceman in Cape Agulhas. At times he would think of Reinaldo Arenas, writing in Before Night Falls about Key West as purgatory. At night he dreamt of a scene he once saw in Sanduny Banya, Moscow: two men (perhaps in another national context waterpolo players [a whatsapp thread on his 25th birthday]), facing each other in the buff. The one swats the other with the bouquet of drenched white birch, simply tied, stiffening pectorals meeting the blows. As they exchange roles, the welting attains a Teutonic élan. Whomever isn’t hitting, cups his own genitalia, in case the other would lose aim. He also thinks of Harper Pitt using her fridge as a portal in HBO’s Angels in America (he tries to forget America). Hers is a side-by-side fridge, he thinks. Top-to-bottom fridges, without auto-defrost, have marked his life. (He tries to forget Raphael at Bethesda).
He walks to his Proline (his Gavdos Proline), empties the contents (without classifying waste), wet wipes the interior with some baking soda, unplugs it, moves it to the centre of the space, takes an axe and hacks apart the back of it. Now he positions a camera on tripod to face the u-shaped, three sided, rectangular monolith, and presses record. He opens the door, and slides out the vegetable drawers, pouring water from the Atlantic to the left, and water from the Indian on the right, submerging each corresponding hand. If this were ten years ago, this would be an ideal occasion for more suicide prose. Now he just looks at the greyish white of it reflected in the lens and feels kind of sad.

*

But all she could think about was a large plate of spare ribs in a dingy diner dripping with barbeque sauce, making hungry fingers greasy and sticky. Or even the frozen package kind of ribs that you could find in Iceland on the corner of Rye Lane, either way this old rib story was too far fetched, it made her feel uncomfortable and incomplete, as if she was somehow betrayed by her own bones.
These bones that tell her story, or more like a version of her story that has endless adaptations and interpretations. One thing that tends to be consistent is the site, her second residence, a tranquil place full of potential; eager with expectations. This place of bright white light is ordered and clean but bountiful and filled with exotic and juicy sustenance. It is a tower of hope with everything stacked away neatly in rows ordered by height and separated by expiry dates. These containers of endless nutrition are shiny and ever confident in their bid to provide prime-cut health for her planetary voyage.
Her journey begins in amongst towering skyscrapers the tips evaporating in the yellowing sky, a futuristic fishing metropolis. The heat at times is overwhelming with a complex network of air-conditioned tunnels and shelves providing the only reprise. She walks these tunnels, her rainbow robes causing a disdainful ripple of eyebrows, their nostrils facing skywards avoiding the smell of sour milk. She retreats. The heat warms her skin and a holiday smell of sweat and sunscreen hangs in the atmosphere bustling with calls for cervesa, agua, coca…sexy beer. She finds her place in the corretger5 community where intergalactic cabarets and the rejection of social norms are celebrated unquestioned. As she migrates northwards time is no longer of essence. The holiday is over, the sounds of Saturday night muffled by double-glazing. Her journey ends (so far) in the coldest ecology of the tower where fountains like library desks crystallize in the sub-zero drizzle.

Her symptoms are:
a need for efficiency at all costs,
a perm tan,
a mastery of riding 30 story elevators,
an addiction to Crystal Jade’s siu lung bao,
an unhealthy obsession with dreadlocks,
a need for public displays of affection,
a distaste for eating animals,
a distaste for anything chic,
a penchant for crêpe jambon-fromage and vodka pomme,
an obsession with reggae and unavailable men,
a weariness of strangers,
a love affair with hummus,
an infatuation with weather apps,
an acute awareness of the physical, distance between bodies, and
a constant blocked nose

Today the temperature drops through the fridge door and out on to the boulevards.

 
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Fall Formal, curated by Shawn Taylor and Sb Fuller, Kappa Thetha Phi, Richmond, Virginia, 31 October - 30 November 2014. Works by: Tin Nguyen, Patrice Renee Washington, Oliver Lee Terry, Dan Schmahl, and Abri de Swardt Performance by RIND (Lee Relvas)

 
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Goldsmiths MFA Show 2014, Goldsmiths, University of London, London, 10-14 July. Works by: Indrani Ashe, Alex Baggaley, David Bance, Simeon Barclay, Megan Broadmeadow, Jose Castiella, Jeannette Castioni, Io Chaviara, Ting-Ting Cheng, Nicholas Cheveldave, Junyong Cho, Youwon Cho, Yumi Chung, Cynthia Cruz, Abri de Swardt, Nelmarie du Preez, Tom Duggan, Gretchen Geraets, Anne Haaning, Inas Halabi, Rebeen Hama-Rafiq, Trasi Henen, Maya Inbar, Jasmine Johnson, Yunsun Jung, Xenofon Kavvadias, Sam Keogh, Stine Kvam, Sarah Lederman, Shannon Lewis, Stephanie Moran, Mandy Niewöhner, Joseph Noonan-Ganley, Sarah Pager, Matthew Parsons, Alia Pathan, Suzanne Posthumus, Elaine Reynolds, Gro Sarauw, Will Sheridan Jr., Heidi Sincuba, Daniel Oxholm Sørensen, Alan Stanners, Oliver Lee Terry, Sabina Tupan, Sara Umar, Dorine van Meel, Matthew Verdon, Alice May Williams, Puiyin Wong. Art Writing: Judith Browning, Daphne de Sonneville, Heather Welsh. Curating: Elene Abashidze, Bianca Baroni, Nohar Ben Asher, Heidi Brunschweiler, Sasha Burkhanova, Persilia Caton, Louise Chignac, Tom Clark, Oona Doyle, Iben Elmström, Azu González García, Katy Green, Mei Huang, Sung Woo Kim, Julia Marchand, Zoë Marden, Steph Neoh, Lucy Rollins, Wenjie Sun, Cat Turner, Katherine Waugh ​
B OT TOM OF T HE W ORL D
A0 blue back poster made in conversation with Elene Abashidze

 
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Space of no exception, curated by Anna Zhurba, SOKOL CCA, Moscow, 8 October – 4 November 2014. Works by: Natalia Alexander, Olga Butenop, Maria Colina-Perez, Sarah Duffy, Carl Ghent, Maria Gorodeckaya, Julia Gorostidi, Ekaterina Isaeva, Jasmine Johnson, Daria Kalugina, Elena Kholkina, Irina Kravchina, Elena Martynenko, Dorine van Meel, Elena Minaeva, Daria Neretina, Mandy Niewöhner, Pavel Otdelnov, Sarah Pager, Vera Papadopoulou, Alia Pathan, Anton Permjakov, Ksenia Plisova, Elaine Reynolds, Shelby Seu, Abri de Swardt and Ian Tamkovich

 
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Field Work, curated by Andrey Parshikov, Muzeon Park, IV Moscow International Biennale for Young Art, Moscow, 2 August 2014. Works by: Abri de Swardt, Sarah Duffy, Carl Gent, Julia Gorostidi, Vera Iona, Ekaterina Isaeva, Jasmine Johnson, Daria Kalugina, Elena Martynenko, Daria Neretina, Mandy Niewöhner, Sarah Pager, Alia Pathan, Maria Colina Perez, Shelby Seu, and Dorine van Meel

 
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Gesture, curated by Lucy Jane Turpin, US Gallery, 16 July – 2 August, Stellenbosch, and Kalashnikovv Gallery, Johannesburg, 21 August – 8 September 2014. Works by: Gabrielle Alberts, Heléne van Aswegen, Bridget Baker, Vincent Bezuidenhout, Niall Bingham, Wolf Britz, Coexistent (Nina Barnett and Robyn Nesbit), Merel van ’t Hullenaar, Gina Kraft, Buyaphi Mdledle, Anthea Moys, Matteo Pitassi, Julia Raynham, Neil le Roux, Sober and Lonely (Robyn Cook and Lauren von Gogh), Danie Stander, Abri de Swardt, MJ Turpin, Lucy Jane Turpin, and Niels Vis

 
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Painting Show and Performances, Winter Projects, London, 5-6 October 2013. Performances by: Barbara Gamper, Abri de Swardt, Ben Newton, Heidi Smith, Julia Hayes, Rob Lye, Say Yes or Die (Anne Rochat, Gilles Furtwängler and Sarah Anthony). Paintings by: Phillip Allen, Frank Ammerlaan, Lucy Boyle, Benjamin Brett, Vittorio Brodmann, Cristina Cojanu, Charlotte Delvetter, Freya Douglas-Morris, Grant Foster, Simon Foxall, Sabrina Fritsch, Mathis Gasser, Nelly Haliti, Dido Hallett, Julia Hayes, Milli Jannides, Vivian Kasel, Frank Kent, Katrin Koskaru, Gabriel Lima, Daniel Lipp, George Little, Simon Mathers, Wendy McLean, Matthew Musgrave, France-Lise McGurn, Ben Newton, Nick Nowicki, Nicholas Pankhurst, Jon Pilkington, Glen Pudvine, Neil Raitt, Emanuel Rohss, Max Ruf, Sven Sachsalber, Lukas Schmenger, Joshua Sex, Zoé de Soumagnat, Tobias Teschner, Tyra Tingleff, Sanja Todorovic, Kate Warner, Freyja Wright, Thomas Yeomans, Urban Zellweger, Tim Zercie, and Lian Zhang

 
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Unseen Photo Fair, Cokkie Snoei Gallery, Amsterdam, 26-29 September. Works by: Pieter Hugo, Abri de Swardt, Elza Jo, and Jonas Lund

 
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Catapult Screensaver, MOTInternational Projects, London, 13 September 2013

 
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COPILOT, curated by Suzanne Posthumus and Philipp Dorl, 42 King Henry's Road, London, 12 May 2013. Works by: Abri de Swardt, Shengjie Gao, and Will Sheridan & Suzanne Posthumus

 
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Digi Re-Engineering, curated by Koos van der Watt, Jan De Rooster, Jacob Lebeko and Bongani Mkhonza, UNISA Art Gallery, Pretoria, 9 March – 5 April 2013. Works by: Abri de Swardt, Brendon Erasmus, Carmen Truter, Celia De Villiers, Colleen Alborough, Christiaan Hattingh, Daandrey Steyn, Daniel Halter, Diek Grobler
, Eric Duplan
, Gerrit van der Walt, Gordon Froud, 
Greg Miller, 
Griet van der Meulen, Ingrid Bolton, 
Jan De Rooster, 
Jenna Burchell, Kai Lossgott, Karl G Sevenster, Katya Venter, Keith Dietrich, Koos van der Watt, Marco Cianfanelli, Marcus Neustetter, Maurice Mbikayi, Mem Sevenster, Nathaniel Stern, Nellien Brewer, Nina Czegledy, Paula Louw, Rebecca Jones, Reinhard Sonntagg, Retha Buitendagh, and Rozan Cochrane

 
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art now now: collect; discuss, curated by Anja de Klerk, US Museum, Stellenbosch, 1-31 March 2013. Works by: Francis Burger, Abri de Swardt, Lunga Khama, Tasneem Khan, and Chris Swart

 
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An Experiment to Test the Destiny of the World, curated by Sober & Lonely Institute for Contemporary Art, Ithuba Arts Gallery, Johannesburg, 7-24 February 2013. Works by: Abri de Swardt, Annelies Propstra, Audrey Anderson, Audrey Cottin, Bas Schevers, Brian Briggs, Christian Nerf, Dave Sherry, Francis Burger, Genna Gardini, Georgia Munnik, Ginsburg, Morland & Ginsburg, Jon Bernad, Julian Redpath, Laura Copelin, Lester Adams, Machine Project, New Capital (Ben Foch & Chelsea Culp), Noor Nuyten, Phillip Johnson & Gareth Lloyd, Pieter Verwey, Pietmondriaan.com (Michiel Huijben & Simon Kentgens with Diana Duta), Pop Soda (Jimmy Fusil & Mike Wait), Sonya Masinovsky, and Victoria Wigzell

 
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abri de swardt entrusts sober & lonely as custodians of your pot plants in an experiment to test the destiny of the world
lauren@soberandlonely.org or robyn@soberandlonely.org

 
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Dismotief, curated by Richardt Strydom, Potchefstroom Town Hall, Aardklop National Arts Festival, Potchefstroom, 2–6 October 2012. Works by: Tertius Kapp, Loftus Marais, Alwyn Roux, Pieter Bezuidenhout, Braam du Toit, Franco Prinsloo, Steven Bosch, Richardt Strydom, and Abri de Swardt