"Frozen"
This exhibition dwells in the liminal space between Freud’s uncanny and Nietzsche’s "amor fati", between the weight of memory (Proust) and the violent beauty of becoming . The iceberg is the psyche itself—immovable until it fractures. The dead bird is the ego, frozen in time. The clearing in the clouds? Perhaps transcendence. Or just another illusion.
Escape / Eternal recurrence (The Trap of Awareness)
Meat hooks dangle not with carcasses, but floating analyst couches. A choir of synthetic voices sings Lacan’s seminars in Gregorian chant, their harmonies warping as surgical robots stitch new restraints from your biometric data.
A 100-ton monument of lab-grown flesh throbs under bioreactor veins, its translucent surface weeping slow decay. Pulsing like a dying heart. Its gelatinous mass shifting with the weight of a thousand unread dreams.*
A gothic reliquary of steel and glass suspends Coleridge's cursed seabird above a humming industrial saw—its wings eternally outstretched in postmortem flight. The chains creak with the exact frequency of a sinking ship's final groan, while beneath, the gleaming blade spins just shy of contact
A gargantuan particle accelerator throbs with crimson mist. The machine doesn't smash particles - it pulverizes meaning itself, reducing every sacred text you've ever loved to vibrating crimson static that seeps from the walls like radioactive sweat.
A towering crucible of blackened steel dominates the chamber, its belly glowing with the fever-dream orange of molten lead. Visitors feed their handwritten sins into its maw—childhood humiliations, adulterous thoughts, uncommitted crimes—each scrap of paper bursting into cobalt flames that lick the air like the tongues of penitent heretics
A procession of Victorian fainting couches slumps in the gloom, their brown velvet swollen with the ghosts of a thousand repressed memories. The upholstery breathes—slow, labored inhalations that make the horsehair stuffing whisper terrible truths in the language of creaking springs
.png)
A glass dissection chamber hums with the sound of a thousand watch gears, its automated scalpels performing a blasphemous ballet on still-warm raven corpses. Beside each twitching mechanical hand, 3D printers extrude perfect sugar replicas of the birds' skeletons
A void where reality unravels - superconducting qubits whisper to your neurons, translating brainwaves into obscene Freudian case studies that materialize on frozen pork fat parchment, dissolving into grease as you try to grasp them.