Das Paradies Im Stillen Ozean

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Vanessa BEECROFT | Louise BOURGEOIS | Fernando BRYCE | Jimmie DURHAM | Thilo JENSSEN | Johanna KANDL | Radenko MILAK | Zwelethu MTHETHWA | Rade PETRASEVIC | Maruša SAGADIN | Jim SHAW | Nancy SPERO | Margherita SPILUTTINI

THE MELANCHOLY PARADISE IN THE DEAFENING OCEAN 

Paradise is an agreement, a proposition. The fragment that one sees, one can interpret and draw conclusions about the inhabitants, and the inhabitant in us, and the inhabitant draws conclusions about us and about itself. Even when your reflection is irrelevant to others. But without the others, you have no mirror.
Paradise is a joke, or the simulation of a joke in our simulated world invented by a virus, everything is like something from another time, like all jokes, all organisations, all perceptions and representations, everything was once, even the future was once, those, those who we have imagined ourselves, there's no memory of anymore, and no returning to the future anymore, no onwards into the past, to the beginning, to the time when one could have regretted or corrected something. When everything was still so simple, when jokes still funtioned, and paradises still functioned , when everything still had a structure, an order, something like silence, an elegance in the chaos. 
We find ourselves in a waiting room full of nothingness. The unattainable now stands here next to us, yet we can neither see it nor grasp it. If I understand what you are saying about me, what does that say about me? The clock watches us questioningly, clocks always want to watch what we are doing, they are envious of us because we can prolong time, against all reason and rationale. 
Paradise is the feeling of not missing out on anything and not having missed out on anything; nevertheless, the best thing about paradise is that one returns from it again, because paradise is only a projection surface behind which is another projection surface. 
Paradise is ravenous like the night. The next morning reveals to us that nothing disappears, nothing has disappeared, one remembers an earlier time, but not yesterday. But remembrance is no paradise, only because we make it one.
Paradise is the land of dispassion, the space that is filled to the brim with melancholy made of rhinestones, one cannot breathe, one suffocates on happiness. In a low voice one asks the first person one comes across: "Can't you be ill somewhere else?"
(quot. Tex Rubinowitz, Vienna, December 2020