Dillan Marsh
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boilersuits 2016-07-13
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Too Loud a Solitude 2015-07-18
For thirty-five years now I've been compacting waste-paper, and if I had it all to do over I'd do just what I've done for the past thirty-five years. Even so, three or four times a year my job turns from plus to minus: the cellar suddenly goes bad, the nags and niggles and whines of my boss pound in my ears and head and make the room into an inferno; the wastepaper, piled to the ceiling, wet and moldy, ferments in a way that makes manure seem sweet, a swamp decomposing in the depths of my cellar, with bubbles rising to the surface like will-o'-the-wisps from a stump rotting in the mire. And I have to come up for air, get away from the press, but I never go out, I can't stand fresh air anymore, it makes me cough and choke and sputter like a Havana cigar. So while my boss is screaming and wringing his hands and raining threats down on me, I slip away and set off in search of other basements, other cellars.
Most of all I enjoy central-heating control rooms, where men with higher education, chained to their jobs like dogs to their kennels, write the history of their times as a sort of sociological survey and where I learned how the fourth estate was depopulated and the proletariat went from base to superstructure and how the university-trained elite now carries on its work. My best friends are two former member of our Academy of Sciences who have been set to work in the sewers, so they've decided to write a book about them, about their crissings and crossings under Prague, and they are the ones who taught me that the excrement entering the sewage plant at Podbaba on Sundays differs substantially from the excrement entering it on Mondays, and that each day is so clearly differentiated from the rest that the rate of flux may be plotted on a graph, and according to the ebb and flow of prophylactics one may determine the relative frequency with which varying sections of Prague indulge in sexual intercourse.
Too Loud a Solitude, Bohumil Hrabal, 1976, translation Michael Henry Heim
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Glass Magazine Review 2013-10-18
www.theglassmagazine.com
Nothing about Trees
On October 24, 2013, Cristina Bodgan
Probably the most exciting art shows I have seen recently were those I could relate to an experience – of light, of space; of environment in general. It seems as though single artworks – or even installations – are no longer efficient in producing aesthetic experiences for the viewer. With the omnipresence of what used to be called “new media”, the necessity for an experience to come from a state of immersion has risen. Contemplation is replaced by a more physical approach, the body becoming the subject of experience as much as the mind; in fact, art environments develop an organic approach to the human subject, proposing to reunite him with the world.
For such purposes, the landscape genre is an immediate solution. The show put together by 16 artists in a forgotten factory in North London, Nothing about Trees, regroups a variety of approaches to landscape, from paintings to object-based installations, to light shows using slides and transparent surfaces. The result is an open invitation to a walk into a place of mystery. Scenography is essential: after an initial open space, in which Pallas Citroen’s massive lighted sculpture of a fold bewilders the viewer, the show spreads into all directions, with pieces hidden around corners and under arches. Some are never what they seem to be – such as Mela Yerka’s mysterious moon painting or Dillan Marsh’s assemblages of too familiar objects. Others are built in time, only to break into perfect pieces – as in Giusy Pirrotta’s work. Light has the power to wake more than just the eye, and all of the works are constantly changed by beams of all shapes and sizes.
The figure of the landscape thus appears both in the individual works and in the show as a whole. One can fragment the space ad infinitum and still find himself in a liveable place. Immersion is the product of repetition and extension. The body is engaged and freed at the same time. This is a most beautiful attempt at defining the organic.
Artists: Carolina Ambida, Pallas Citroen, Eleanor Clare, Eleni Foundoukis, Tom Harrison, John Higgins, Iyvone Khoo, Tom Mason, Dillan Marsh, Bjorn Mortensen, Olivia Notaro, Elsa Philippe, Justin Piperger, Giusy Pirrotta, Ben Turner, Mela Yerka.
Cristina Bogdan
Nothing about Trees is at Unit 2C, Elthorne Road Studios, Boothby Road, London N19.
Opening times: 20th, 22nd-25th, 11am-6pm, with a closing afternoon on 26th from 4-8pm. 
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shelves chairs boilersuits 2012-08-14
photo bjorn mortensen 
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shelves chairs and boilersuits press release 2012-08-14
What value does an object have, if it has lost it's function?
What happens when a chair is something that you cannot sit down on any more?
The function of art is not so clearly defined, theorists and critics are still discussing this question. What is the function of art and where is the art in a piece of work? We are proposing to explore this through the making of objects that appear to be functional at first glance.
The seemingly functional is turned completely useless or perhaps the useless object has suddenly become functional; could this be at the core of where fine art production separates from other genres? The question of what are we left with when art fails to tell stories, fails to prove craftsmanship, fails to be conceptual, fails to document, fails to critique, fails to construct a better world, and so on and so on. A dysfunctional object in our culture is at best a problematic object.
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shelves chairs and boilersuits documentation 2012-08-12
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