THE (PSYCHO)SOMATIC ZONE arises from the pure and immediate collision of body and mind.
In this reflex zone, sensation precedes words and the intellect loses its role as mediator. “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” warned Dante at the gates of Hell. Here, it is artifice that we must renounce.
In this reflex zone, sensation precedes words and the intellect loses its role as mediator. “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” warned Dante at the gates of Hell. Here, it is artifice that we must renounce.
On the right side of the space, colors, gestures, and pulsations seem to shake reason. In Pipilotti Rist's clips, joy bursts forth, raw and dazzling, but is immediately mixed with discomfort. The familiar and the strange coexist, a familiar melody soon disturbed by a distorted voice or an unexpected image. The gaze oscillates between comfort and discomfort, the ear between repetition and dissonance. The pleasure is immediate, but never quite soothing.
By opening up access to her psyche, the artist refers us back to the turmoil of our own emotions. Anger, bordering on excess, ultimately opens a breach of freedom. The fall—the missteps, the failures, the collapse—stubbornly calls for recovery, for a new beginning. We sense the fierce joy of a body that has been tested but remains rebellious, and the exhausting struggle to conform to the demands placed upon it.
Pipilotti Rist's works get on our nerves. They refuse distance, force intimacy, shift the lines between what is shown and what is felt. Almost palpable, they exert a silent pressure on us. And under this weight, something in us crumbles, something becomes clear.
By opening up access to her psyche, the artist refers us back to the turmoil of our own emotions. Anger, bordering on excess, ultimately opens a breach of freedom. The fall—the missteps, the failures, the collapse—stubbornly calls for recovery, for a new beginning. We sense the fierce joy of a body that has been tested but remains rebellious, and the exhausting struggle to conform to the demands placed upon it.
Pipilotti Rist's works get on our nerves. They refuse distance, force intimacy, shift the lines between what is shown and what is felt. Almost palpable, they exert a silent pressure on us. And under this weight, something in us crumbles, something becomes clear.
