'in the wind outside the gallery'
June 2018 – present.
The exhibition is on until all the stones have fallen.
June 2018 – present.
The exhibition is on until all the stones have fallen.
10/05/2022
written by:
Ana Sofia Drinovan
@Anakronisma
I came to London as a student of the arts and five years later I am a student of the arts. My master’s degree in the art and architecture of East Asia spilled into time spent helping to run a bookshop, where I am at this very moment, and eventually the pricklings of curiosity I felt about the care and maintenance of works of art and culture bloomed and twisted between the books I handled every day, and now I am studying book conservation at an art school. It was easy enough for me to type out that little history of my time, but every day that I have lived this little journey of myself, I have been wandering, staring upwards, admiring the play of light on buildings, thinking about space. I have been optimistic and felt myself tiny, in a beautiful way. I am often deeply and hopelessly lost. I have walked and cycled narrow streets and riverbanks alone and with the friends I have made, talking endlessly (to myself or together) about the art that inspires us and the art we want to make, fighting the wind, looking through windows, wondering where there is a place for us.
Because as far as I can feel there is no place for us. Our favorite places are the coffee shops, but we avoid so many because they feel as huge and fathomless as the city buildings, and their company sprawls, and their drinks are expensive, and there is physical distance between all these hot cups of coffee and corners of refuge too so we keep walking and it might be ten minutes or it might be forty, and still the wind blows and we are talking into it. My mind is on everything and my eyes are on the buildings. At least, in the absence of a place for myself, the space is mine, and I know the high corners of some buildings as well as a pigeon does. My friends and I are rock doves. We’ll build house anywhere and we will wing anyplace in our dull coats, courting and laughing and acclimatized. Let a pigeon into an art gallery next time you get the chance to hold the door.
written by:
Ana Sofia Drinovan
@Anakronisma
I came to London as a student of the arts and five years later I am a student of the arts. My master’s degree in the art and architecture of East Asia spilled into time spent helping to run a bookshop, where I am at this very moment, and eventually the pricklings of curiosity I felt about the care and maintenance of works of art and culture bloomed and twisted between the books I handled every day, and now I am studying book conservation at an art school. It was easy enough for me to type out that little history of my time, but every day that I have lived this little journey of myself, I have been wandering, staring upwards, admiring the play of light on buildings, thinking about space. I have been optimistic and felt myself tiny, in a beautiful way. I am often deeply and hopelessly lost. I have walked and cycled narrow streets and riverbanks alone and with the friends I have made, talking endlessly (to myself or together) about the art that inspires us and the art we want to make, fighting the wind, looking through windows, wondering where there is a place for us.
Because as far as I can feel there is no place for us. Our favorite places are the coffee shops, but we avoid so many because they feel as huge and fathomless as the city buildings, and their company sprawls, and their drinks are expensive, and there is physical distance between all these hot cups of coffee and corners of refuge too so we keep walking and it might be ten minutes or it might be forty, and still the wind blows and we are talking into it. My mind is on everything and my eyes are on the buildings. At least, in the absence of a place for myself, the space is mine, and I know the high corners of some buildings as well as a pigeon does. My friends and I are rock doves. We’ll build house anywhere and we will wing anyplace in our dull coats, courting and laughing and acclimatized. Let a pigeon into an art gallery next time you get the chance to hold the door.
photos by Ana Drinovan