Your delicious dreaming, Jakob Kolb, Šárka Koudelová, Titania Seidl, Salon Goldschlag, Vienna 2019
Your delicious dreaming
Titania Seidl, Jakob Kolb, Šárka Koudelová
Curated and text by Nika Kupyrova
Photography by Rudolf Strobl and Nika Kupyrova
November 9 – December 20, 2019
Salon Goldchlag / Goldschlag 70
Goldschlagstraße 70 Vienna, Austria
Looking back on past loves things get mixed up, colours dull, small details get
irreversibly lost. Memory stutters. A dream falling apart into mismatched fragments,
like limbs, torn and flung upon the battlefield. There is glory in battle — but where is
glory in that?
How we argued; teeth and nail, cruel and bitter. You would be methodical and remorseless
— I would sneak and lie and manipulate. Intoxicated by our mutual hostility, we
would circle around each other, calculating blame, sharpening tongues, waiting for a
weakness to show itself.
It wasn’t always like that of course. I remember the first time I saw you: such beautiful
eyes, I thought — I could wear them. They had such a clear, glassy quality; laughing, yet
so perfectly cold. A warning?
A warning against this complete mutual intoxication, against the desire to possess each
other whole, from a polished fingernail to a chipped tooth. I think we knew we would
bring each other to the breaking point, with our worst extremes laid bare and ugly... But
What I want to say that to this day I am struggling to see you in your entirety. A lock of
hair; a string of beads; a collarbone, like a proud bird. Trinkets and mementoes, surely,
but their materiality challenges my memory of you, and isn’t it why we keep things? To
remember? Dried flowers — do people still keep those?
Still, I keep your things, your stupid things I did not have the heart to bury with you that
night. That night I dragged you, limp and heavy, your lifeless shoes leaving tell-tale
groves in soft summer earth. I pushed and pulled and smeared dirt and my tears all over
— pathetic, really, with my black rubbish bags and a plastic garden shovel.
Your things, I got a drawer full of them. Objects experience time differently — cushioned
in their slumber, they just let the years ebb at them, never frantic, never afraid. Dust
settles on them like a king’s mantle. But the drawer rattles and creaks; won’t close
properly — I should fix it, really, but you know how these things are. I ignore it, but it
pains me. I would never want to disturb your delicious dreaming.