When the Landscape is Becoming


The memory of the landscape neatly holds all those many touches of humanity and history, preserves forgotten narratives, and peacefully exists in its own distinctive form of preservation and internal cultivation of memory by itself, non-subjectively. The memory of the Sørøya landscape maintains invisible traces of collective touches with the internal interiors of the soil and has kept knowledge about a public place, which has a distant echo in the diaries of the region.

Patterns of Everyday Existence

Day after day, we do a series of inconscient days’ rituals, where our body acts abstractedly, reflexively, and the consciousness does not express out the relationship with the surrounding; every day we do one movement after another, almost without going beyond the patterns of our own everyday existence; the daily interaction of these patterns forms the unreflected choreography of our actions; and this choreography becomes a unique form of our narrative: a reflection of our way of mutual communication with the environment.


Hundred Miles of Soil-

Soft Touch on Foot

The paradox of the movement of a flower across the physical borders of countries is the possibility of its movement only in the cut state, without soil.

As a result, the whole perception of a flower is determined not by its single structure, inseparable from the soil and environment but only by a cut off part of it, only slightly reflecting the original whole. Since a handful of ground itself carries information about culture, the memory of time and place in their most diverse manifestations: from microbacteria to a single landscape.



The dimension "before", "now" and "after".

The constructs create new featureless forms in the city in a natural way, which are often interesting in their structure - since, on the one hand, this is an extremely pure perception of form and space, and, on the other hand, these structures destroy the holistic view of a traditional city. 


Space of Voice

The space of the voice forms meanings until the moment of formation of a physical space of dialogue. In this space, everyone lays an individual route to a certain collective medium where the boundaries of individual subjective reality merge with the spaces of common location. The voice space becomes part of the space of internal monologue as a transitional stage between the open form of comprehension and the moment of reflection. Meanwhile, the collective voice space becomes a place where disjoint monologues fuse; their spaces are so close to each other that the differences between them get blurred and a different paradigm of their interaction is formed. The difference between such monologues is perceptible only at the moment of relocation and receding from subjective reality in which everybody submits to merging with urban information flows.



The spaces are overloaded. It is not clear where the space of a particular subject exists.

The city's chaos and turmoil blend individual spaces. The distinctive substance of a separate entity is not definite; it is difficult to differentiate between the subject's own reality and yet another reflection in the continuous flow of the others' realities. Subjective reality can not exist autonomously: it would not be able to evolve. However, one should permanently remember/remind/ return to a search for a pure minimalist foundation round in which the surrounding reality is revolving maniacally.



My movement is harmonious, my steps intertwine with the surrounding sounds; the echoes of my favourite melodies are sounding in my head. I've always felt interested in the city's musical strings. Wires and rails; the space between them being like a gamut, without a special grid. And the melody each time is different. And the moment when I get on the tram I feel as if I am in that intermediate state. It is curious that the halt of expectation is as motional as the moment of relocation, as it is the same moment of waiting. It seems that non-space is perceivable only once. If so, have I really missed it right now? I stopped humming, I'm a little confused; the city is singing, it does not disturb my silence, it just accompanies my movement. What's the time? I completely forgot to think about it, I missed my stop, I halted at the moment of translocation. My movement through space is static. I would like to grasp this moment of my silence and of the city noise, the moment when I am singing without uttering a sound.


The Cradle

Since birth, we have been wrapped up, protected against direct exposure to the world, we always have been secured, always shielded behind one of the layers. Since birth, the world around us has been a cradle, the sacred place which is kept inside our memory.