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

www.goldschlag70.com

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

I digress.

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.