Vilgot Björkman

Installation: Particle board, various wood, acrylic paint, recycled materials. 5 monitors with 6 videos (7 min + 7 min, 20 min, 9 min, 14 min, 1 min), sound work (varied length).
Approximately 300 x 220 x 400 cm

It was supposed to be a film about war.  

About despair and confusion.  

There would be elements of humor, and there would be a point.  

That humans are embarrassingly unreliable and that in the right shoes, they take a life.  

There was a script and a monologue.  

But it lacked color.  

And form.  

Nothing sang behind the thoughts.  

And the scenes lacked sweat and intimacy.  

There was a shell of something pointing to nothing.  

When I take a few steps back from the epileptic screens, I smile at the serious stupidity.  

When I see my friends’ sculptures and pictures carefully built up and beginning to breathe.  

When I hear someone whistle in the kitchen or tell a bad joke in the store.  

When someone shyly asks for the number 7 as their match jersey and smiles a little when you ask if it’s really that important.  

When my little brother reluctantly asks for help with a math problem.  

Or when grandma tells mom that the taxi driver was unusually big.  

Then I understand that all wars are impossible, even though they exist.