Sun Has Teeth
11/02 – 07/05/2023 The Cupola Hall of the main building of the Latvian National Museum of Art, Riga, Latvia
During a conversation with Amanda, our exchanges scattered throughout hollows of the sweeping rush of time and punctuated with brief pauses like commas, a poem of hers reached me, opening with a light
Just for fun
Cupola like an eyeball
Do you see what I see?
She disagrees and leaves the orbit.
As I try to unravel the multiple layers of pleasure to be partaken in the sight (and also the text), while simultaneously taking a step outside of the relentless race of images in front of my eyes, I recall a rare moment of sunshine lighting up Amanda’s studio when it occurred to me that, when the moment and the mood were right, you could discern the nerves in the tissue of your own hand. These nerves then must be gripped in a very precise way to move the apples of your eyes along surfaces and through strata of depth between them, feeling a tingle, even slight dizziness as you watch, because neck movements matter in this case. Relentlessly following the varying angles of dancing lines, the back of your head sways on the well-trodden as well as now already dewy paths, in step with the filigree patterns drawn by the light.
Yearning to be reborn as a lover, the appreciator first deeply inhales the museum air and becomes aware of themself as an integral part, present and vital, without which the creases and furrows of the oil paint, planted in the eternal organic self, would remain unexplored phenomena, unseen, levitating in a lit-up vacuum. In the company of the room, the collaboration between it and the artist is revealed as they rhythmically tap to discover the connection points where echo-like rays hide the steps, lunges, hideouts and shoals of planes during the viewing experience: this is where the objects meet in handshakes of colours and shapes. Always on the lookout for new stimuli, the appreciator can observe the ever-changing landscape whooshing past in strips and patches like a scene behind the window of an intercity bus, scratching onto the canvas of a musical score the texture of notes that fall without a sound into your sensory organs to stream into the flowing river of your thoughts, swaying in rhythm with the brushstrokes floating by.
Now I read a poem about the colour orange and sardines, putting an unexplored mark on the map of art adventure, and it takes its place among words, observations and gestures that have been gliding past during the progress through the exhibition: sometimes, soaked in turpentine, stretching and shrinking under spatially varying conditions, at other times, liberated from it all, revealing themselves or sneaking up to me, half-stealthily holding on to a corroded clock face full of slivers and fragments shimmering with beginnings, sharp revelations, imaginary strategies, turning points drawn on coffee dust, and movement.
Eventually, all this transforms into a buzzing that fills the room, accompanying the appreciator like a calming caress as they drift through the architectural constellation which keeps turning along with the rest of celestial bodies despite the Earth, alternating trajectories with brief intervals of rest, looking around, navigating layers of brain rock, newly discovered and well-settled methods, attention-absorbing materials and their compounds.
In a rush of saliva, trembling with impatience, the appreciator adapts the diaphragm aperture, focus, shutter speed etc. of their pupils, allowing light to irradiate and shape the pleasure from getting involved in a conversation, intercepting a half-syllable to unravel the correlation between themself and all the objects and this carcass, inside which a toothy Sun has cocooned itself, exposed in its transparency yet capable of worming its way into your thoughts like gooseflesh at this time when the solar spring is taking its first steps and the sun-flooded nest that is the Cupola Hall has become home to Amanda Ziemele’s solo exhibition, open to the appreciator who has made their way so high up the stairs or taken the time to pass through glittering gold to end up here and take an air-conditioned breath; stepping twice in the same exhibition is impossible, not to mention that there are two entrances (and exits), therefore the speed of travelling is irrelevant: a new insight or a shoelace that has come undone can make you bend down and notice another plane, a rough or grainy one, that has taken its place in the ensemble right here and right now, making waves in the air like a frequency of soundless scratching, transferring from the left ear to the right one, shifting from the left foot to the right one, balancing along with objects and spatial or metaphysical surmises. The eyes are open, light is streaming in, and they will still see something even if they are closed. The rest of the body of Amanda’s poem comes to my mind now:
Rays envelop objects
From the outside in.
Abstract patches,
Blurred little flies and well-shaped lightning bolts.
Many people get used to them and learn to look past them.
Meanwhile, the cones and rods are looking for ways to escape boredom.
The space smirks.
Most likely, the Giant will consume it all.
– Kaspars Groševs
Curator: Kaspars Groševs
Photo documentation: Kristīne Madjāre
