Your delicious dreaming: Jakob Kolb, Šárka Koudelová, Titania Seidl, Salon Goldschlag, Vienna 2019

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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.