Black rainbow: Rui chafes & Ralf Ziervogel | Duo Exhibition

11 January - 10 March 2014

“Black Rainbow”

 

is 

[...that hostile tongue that licks you back into the darkest regions of your mind]

[...eyes so tightly closed that only phosphene remains]

[...the pain to recapture that brief imprinted twinkling, so lingeringly sweet, so again, you repeat]

[...the eyes-wide-open nightmare you awaken from, then fall back into]

[...not a nightmare but a dream-sublime, black and white, soundless but alive]

[...that eyes-wide-shut lucid reverie, between consciousness and sleeping]

 

“because all that we see or seem

is

but a dream within a dream”[1] 

 

Black Rainbow is a tale in threes: the beauty, the menacing, the dreams. Rui Chafes’ matte black sculptures are nebulous, anthropomorphic, organic; Ralf Ziervogel’s drawings meticulous, delicate, refined. The works allude to their human-origins, their handcrafted nature, and invite you closer with their subdued ambiance. Enveloped by beauty and serenity, it is one quietly nuanced discovery after another.

 

The closer look of Black Rainbow derails you. Chafes’ sculptures are familiar, but clarity remains on the tip of your tongue. The nearer you are, the denser the black, the sharper the steel edges tense against the induced gentle contouring. Ziervogel’s careful geometrics begin to reveal into words and phrases… representations of a hostile, introverted, fixated tedium. The tone shifts slowly: serenity reveals itself to be melancholy, subtly turns controlled restraint, the repetition, previously an ode to its inspiration, now obsessive. Something lingers in this created world, something not quite…right; the forms, once near familiar, now deviate distorted, as though in a dream where reality-mirroring becomes mimetic-imaging.

 

Black Rainbow, as with dreams, falls just short of reality. Works entangled in mimesis, each imitation is a further dilution, that one bit more fragile, that one bit more hostile in its desire to re-attain authenticity. The captured transience of original to artificial form is disorienting… you oscillate between the delicacy and aggression of the works, awareness and confusion. It is an indeterminable synthesis of reality and imagination, a walk through a lucid dream, questioning what really-is or never-was. Do you look upon real objects with dream-eyes or dream objects with conscious-eyes? But maybe the question is not what you see, but where you want to be: half-awake, or half-asleep?