The evening had no destiny at all; since it was clear, I went out to take a walk and to recollect after dinner. I did not want to determine a route for my stroll; I tried to attain a maximum latitude of probabilities in order not to fatigue my expectation with the necessary foresight of any one of them. I managed, to the imperfect degree of possibility, to do what is called walking at random; I accepted, with no other conscious prejudice than that of avoiding the wider avenues or streets, the most obscure invitations of chance. However, a kind of familiar gravitation led me farther on, in the direction of certain neighborhoods, the names of which I have every desire to recall and which dictate reverence to my heart. I do not mean by this my own neighborhood...but rather its still mysterious environs: an area I have possessed often in words but seldom in reality, immediate and at the same time mythical. The reverse of the familiar, its far side, are for me those penultimate streets, almost as effectively unknown as the hidden foundations of our house or our invisible skeleton. My progress brought me to a corner. I breathed in the night, in a most serene holiday from thought. The view, not at all complex, seemed simplified by my tiredness. It was made unreal by its very typicality. ...None of the houses dared open itself to the street; the fig tree darkened over the corner; the little arched doorways—higher than the taut outlines of the walls—seemed wrought from the same infinite substance of the night.
—Jorge Luis Borges
INTERIORS doesn’t propose a strong position or thesis. It’s more a hope that some threads become apparent as one passes through it. These may draw from specific works or relate indirectly to the spaces that form in the relationship between them, as when a strip of wood, metal or stone at the bottom of a doorway forms a boundary that, when entering a house or room, is crossed. Even when stated modestly, this intention carries a Utopian sentiment. One that materially counterbalances with the exhibition itself. And it’s at this intercession, where the social and material overlap, that the exhibition opens to something interesting. Not as it manifests an interrogating premise, per se, but offers, in a simple delineation of space, an arrangement of furniture or the curving pine of an Utö stool, a reminder that social forms of life often contour in something concrete. How boundaries reify in boundlessness.
Patricia L. Boyd
Axel Einar Hjorth