RITA MCBRIDE
KONRAD FISCHER
DÜSSELDORF 10.11.23 - 17.02.2024
All you can hear is the gentle sound of rain coming from outside, echoing here in this place with its white walls illuminated by rows of TL lamps. We're the only ones here, which pleases me, and I have a feeling it pleases the others too. After a brief glance around, I first try to situate where I've just climbed up to. I try to remember if the place was laid out the same way last time. In fact, I'm not sure what I saw that time, on my own, and my mind freezes for a moment. I don't know how to put it in the right words, but this insignificant detail being reborn here, it's as if it only works this way, and that next time - well, without any other unknown visitors - I'll be alone again.
Then I get the impression that this wall to my right, on which hangs an framed image with figures, silhouettes of various sizes - in fact, the same group of four white silhouettes on a black background, reproduced several times in another dimension - that this wall wasn't there. But I wonder why I'm dwelling on that, rather than on the work we came here to do. And it's when I fully enter the room that I notice a large object behind this wall, centered at the beginning of this long space. My attention is finally drawn to the material. I walk around it once, then in the other direction. Arms crossed, I bring my gaze close to certain corners. I scroll through the form slowly, then raise my eyes to Martin and his blue Gore Tex rain jacket. His arms are crossed and he's holding his chin. Behind me, I hear the faint rustle of a sheet of paper being turned over, and as I turn around, I see Hanna. She's holding a few sheets stapled together. We continue to move quietly around this object.
- I like the color, I say, addressing Hanna and Martin.
- Yes, me too, replies Hanna; but also the shape, the texture. And did you see underneath? You can see it's not real wood.
- It’s obvious at first glance, I think, says Martin. The wood pattern is too regular and obvious, too clean even. It just looks like wood, enough to persuade us , if we don't care.
…
- Tulip Pulpit. That's the title, says Hanna, and it says here that it's laminated wood.
It's a four-sided desk, exaggeratedly large, like a modernist, or rather constructivist structure, dark red in color. It looks like a utopian vision straight out of a Russian avant gardist's dream. Here, a single book takes pride of place: "Speech", by Rita McBride. It's the same one you'll find here and there in bookshops. The idea of leafing through it doesn't occur to me. The conditions are obvious, but no... It's Hanna who leafs through it, leaving it on the desk. With one hand, she turns two or three pages, stops on the fourth, seems to read - you can see it in her eyes - for a brief moment, then closes it again. She strokes the cover, follows the rectangular title with her index finger, then lightly touches the black exclamation mark, which is bathed in a silver monochrome. Martin, standing opposite of me, in the corner of this space, is shouldered against the wall by the window. He seems to be looking at the desk in its entirety, but he gives the impression that he's thinking about something else, or about lots of things at the same time. I have the impression that his gaze is crossing the desk, piercing through all the reality in front of him to imagine something else. Magali is behind us, a few meters from an opening into a neighboring room, from which I see a high, long, smooth, slightly swollen wall piercing through. At waist height, to the left of the wall, there's a niche where a small sculpture sits. Magali turns to me and smiles in amazement.
- What is it? she asks, in a slightly whispered or controlled voice, as if something must not be disturbed, like when you grope a creaky wooden floor to erase your presence.
I nod with an "I don't know" accompanied by a mixture of eyebrow and shoulder shrugs. I join her and we look together. The sculpture is an earthy color. A slightly dirty beige. We recognize a draped person with a bent back (from exertion or age?). I instinctively see an old woman. She's grimacing - a smile, perhaps. The niche is completely blackened, while the wall, once again, gives the impression that it's wood, but it's not. It's still laminate - I think - very shiny, shinier than the desk behind us, as if a plastic film were covering the whole thing, which makes me think of a ship's hull. I also understand that this wall isn't really a wall at all, but rather a large turnstile that should be able to rotate on its axis. But in practice, it doesn't work here, as it's been placed in the center of this door-sized opening. Incidentally, the other side of the wall is the same black as that of the niche, but here I have a better idea of what it's all about. Here, the material seems just as smooth, but a geometric pattern covers the entire surface. It looks like pixelated camouflage, but in black and with a texture as shiny as laminate, but rougher, even abrasive. A few steps away, I imagine a wall of ivy in the middle of the night, but in another way, I also see a reptilian skin. I notice that the rain has intensified and small hailstones are striking against the windows. This surprises and fascinates me because - as commonplace as it is - hailstones don't fall that often. My attention then turns entirely outside, to a view that looks out over the back of a block of houses, but I can't quite make out whether they're dwellings or sheds, because of the condensation and the lines left by the drops of water on the window panes. However, the sky is deep gray, that of a thunderstorm, and no sooner do I realize this than the white, furtive flash of lightning appears in the corner of my eye. I quickly turn my head towards the spot from which this light appeared and a few seconds later the deep growl of thunder erupts, quietly, then louder and stops.
- 7 seconds! So he is at two kilometers and something, says Hanna
We look at each other, each smiling, as if to approve the information between us all. I think it's funny that Hanna used "he" to refer to the storm, and it amuses me to imagine the storm as an individual, with a personality and feelings. After a moment, I turn around to look at the turnstile again and think I should take a photo of this perspective on the entrance where this strange thing is passing through. So I pull my phone out of my pocket and hold it up in front of me, but when I turn it on, I see 6 missed calls from an unregistered number. I'm confused, and it must be showing on my face, because Magali says to me:
- Everything alright, Jack? You're making such a face.
It takes me a while to answer her, because I can't interact with the touch screen on my phone, which distracts me even more.
- I don't know what's wrong with it. It must be buggy.
Still with my phone in hand, I try to work out who's trying to reach me at all costs, and, half-conscious, I walk straight ahead along the large turnstile to the next room. I turn my phone back on, now seeing 8 missed calls, again all from the same number. The screen remains frozen, or rather stuck on the home page where I still can't drag the image to open it. In the background, another thunder has just broken out, roaring across the room. It was louder than the first, and part of my mind tells me that the storm is moving towards us. With a furtive glance, I see that it's dark outside, it's raining cats and dogs and the light, the sky, everything looks threatening.
It's in this strange moment, when I don't know what to do with the phone, that my attention turns to some black and white steel blocks arranged in a checkerboard pattern - which makes me realize that there were some in the next room too. They remind me of ovens, but very simplified, as if dismantled down to their bare skeletal base. But this impression only lasts a few seconds, as I realize that they don't look like ovens at all. They're glass-door boxes, and behind each one, on a tray, a thin black mat of the same size is laid out. On the top of each mat we can read the same word: FREE