Walking the Line
by Jurriaan Benschop, 2020
The city of Vienna, where Gerlind Zeilner has been living since her studies at the art academy, nurtures her imagination as an artist. The time she spends walking, cycling, or sitting and drawing in cafés anticipates the paintings that she makes. I wonder if her paintings would be any different if she lived somewhere else. Is the city’s cultural fabric part of the content of her work? Or is Vienna just the favorable setting for this work, disappearing from sight once we enter the realm of painting? After all, painting is about transformation.
As a regular visitor, I always find things in Vienna a little different than in the city where I live, Berlin. Both cities are burdened and adorned with history, and both are very much European, but in different ways, showing different wrinkles of the continent’s aged face. Quite a lot of the architectural substance in Vienna has survived the world wars, just as traditions have, and through that the city shows a great historical diversity.
Zeilner introduced me to different aspects of Viennese culture, and did so with enthusiasm. She recommended that I take walks through different Bezirke, of which I always mix up the numbers, and not forget to step into some historic cafés like the Loos American Bar, or to climb the Strudlhofstiege close to the Palais Liechtenstein. I followed that advice and realized that simply being surrounded on a daily basis by so many different layers of history, with endless stories to be imagined in the Gassen and behind the facades, easily invites a person to make mental detours through the past. It affects one’s state of mind and sense of time, especially when at the same time, one is interested in the current visuals and reality of the city. The artist seems thankful to be in Vienna. She does not take it for granted that she finds in her daily surroundings impulses to root, to respond to and create from.
She likes to go inside cafés, sitting down to observe and draw. The Loos American Bar, built in 1908 by Adolf Loos and still located in the Kärntner Durchgang, is where Zeilner used to go in the mornings in order to find a free table in the space where seats quickly become scarce. Another drawing was made in Café Korb, one of the oldest Viennese coffee houses, situated in the first district, where I met the artist for dinner. She pointed to the wooden furniture and the glass lamps hanging from the ceiling as part of what she was interested in. What you can see in her work is how figures and their environment are interrelated. And how solid matter and the surrounding space are equally important. The attention does not go to the individual guests or the conversations they make (an aspect I would be drawn to as a writer, to catch storylines), but rather to how the lines of figures or furniture curve, how these aspects interrelate visually. Air is something you do not pay attention to in a café (unless it is missing), but in Zeilner’s paintings you do. To grab the visual relationships, she has to choose, to decide what is important and what is not, and to bring the diverse visual information back to some basic lines that guide us over the white paper or canvas. She gives directions for looking, you could say, by leaving some aspects out and highlighting others.
Mostly, it is hard to pin down the exact location where the work originates, unless the artist mentions it or gives it away in the title. The work is not about creating a souvenir, or pointing to a place that we may want to visit on this or that street. Rather, it is from the friction with reality where the work springs forth and becomes interesting. It is about breaking free from the world as it looks, to reinvent it. Painting, in Zeilner’s case, indeed seems to be about transformation at least as much as it is about representation. For the artist, the painted motifs float between their thematic origin and their abstract transformation. The artistic standpoint that I extract from the work is that a fixed representation of situations is an illusion. Things are in flux, vibrant, with a tendency to change, and that is a reality that painting should come to terms with. If we still want to state that the work shows something recognizable, we should take it to an abstract level and say that the artist draws energy, vividness, or atmosphere.
Part of the work springs from trips to the countryside, up in the mountains – often in the familiar surroundings of Austria, but travels to Greece and the United States have also led to new works. On the move, new works are created, or at least the beginnings of them. A residency in Tyrol was the source of some drawings and paintings made in 2018, such as Tux, which refers to the name of a village. Family trips close to Salzburg, at the foot of the Untersberg, have also initiated multiple works. Once out of the city and among the cows, there is a different mindset, a fresh wind that blows through the mind and body. Things get less dense, while the receptiveness for color in nature delivers a different focus. Up in the mountains, close to Semmering, spring arrived three weeks later than in Vienna, the artist noticed one year. As she arrived there, the green of the leaves was still fresh and showed many different tones. This “second spring” offered Zeilner a chance to see how green starts, while at her home in Vienna, the greens had already blended into just one overall color.
When considering Zeilner’s artistic roots, one should not only think about the physical environment of city or landscape, but also about artistic ancestry, in this case early modern artists like Vincent van Gogh, Pierre Bonnard, or Paul Cézanne, painters who had a heightened sensibility for light and movement, and who used short brushstrokes and fragments to evoke a larger whole. I would not connect these painters to Zeilner so much stylistically, but through their dynamics and method of composing, bringing rhythm and a sense of direction into the works. The paintings are, in a way, very truthful to perception as it unfolds in constant movement. And they are modern in the sense that the palette has opened up: color does not have to correspond to how it was observed in nature or elsewhere. Of course there are many other and more recent painters – from Willem de Kooning and Maria Lassnig to Dana Schutz – who are relevant to Zeilner, but the root of her approach can be traced back to early modern painting, in which the world was taken apart into little fragments, in order to form it anew. It is a starting point from which her work takes its own turn on things, and that delivers an architecture that is able to house contemporary experiences.
From drawing comes painting. That is to say, selected drawings created on walks through life give the artist the impulse to make a canvas and continue to work with a single motif. And then the transformation goes into the next round. In the studio, the life extract that is captured in the drawings connects itself to the artist’s vision of objects around her, like a window ledge, a chair, or a mop in a bucket. The world remembered and observed merges with the immediate physical surroundings, things lying around in the studio, and the energy at hand with the thoughts of the day. In Mop (2018), you can see the mop as a diagonal through the image. The part to wipe the floor is taken off, put to dry on the bucket. But it is hardly important that it is a mop – nobody is going to clean here. It is a placeholder for color. Mop is a dense and vibrant work. By contrast, one of the latest paintings I see in the studio, Schnittlauch (2019), strikes me because of its monumental simplicity. There is just a vase holding some flowers, the stems merely being stripes of paint. Painting a motif on such a big scale could easily be an overstatement and even appear rhetorical. But the quality of the work resides exactly in its actual size. It makes a perfectly calm painting, both fragile and strong. A painting for which, I assume, many other smaller ones had to be made first in order to become familiar with motif and scale.
The titles of the works – often consisting of one word – refer to the motif that started each of the paintings. They do not necessarily explain or identify the work, but they are considered by the artist to be a fragment of a larger whole. They attach the work to a certain moment, give us a clue of where it started.
How are things connected, how are people related? These are recurrent questions underlying the work. The artist’s goal seems to be to unveil a poetic structure underneath appearances. A hidden map. She creates lines of sight that are both structural and intuitive. The drawing delivers the architecture of seeing rather than the details. And then, through color, handwriting, and movement in paint, a certain atmosphere is created, in some works loud and joyful, in others tense or silenced.
While visitors in a café do not usually consider themselves as being part of a larger group, the artist does. She is the “watcher” who is interested in the balance in the room, to point out relationships between figurative elements, to see how they formally belong together or make a contrast.
In Café Korb, we talk about the question of whether a good artist should also be a good human being, about the desirability of such symmetry between artistic and moral equipment – it is rather a romantic notion, currently out of fashion. Yet at some level, such a connection still exists, and one might wish for more of it. In Zeilner’s case, I sense that her way of looking as an artist assumes fairness in judgment and openness to the qualities of other human beings or surprises that the outside world may bring her. It is an attitude that presupposes real interest in the other, an open eye; without that, she would not be able to “steal” the energy of scenes or people or landscapes as she does. Without that, it would not transmit an unbiased feeling of life’s energy.
What do lines express, apart from being an instrument to depict an object or landscape, or to connect things? Do they have an expression of their own? There can be something nervous about the lines in Zeilner’s paintings; the way they are drawn expresses sensitivity for nuance and contradictions. There is often a change of color in an ongoing line, a hesitation in the execution, as if the artist did not want everything to look straight and doubtless. While the world can present itself as busy and overwhelming, the task of the artist here seems to be to cope with that, to bring things down to a manageable and insightful level. Painting could be seen like this: to show some kind of order within the multitude of forms and phenomena, to slow down the endless threads of stories that surround us and can easily carry us away, to reduce, yet without taking out life’s essence.
Zeilner’s way of “drawing painting” evokes proximity; it gives a sense of immediate touch, as if we can feel through the lines that the artist touched the material while defining forms. I see a special power in Zeilner’s work through this haptic quality, combined with her typical gestures that provide us with a kind of “thinking out loud” of the hand. The resulting aesthetic is active and vivid; it makes what we usually regard as solid forms (the structure of a café interior with all its furniture, for instance) as an open, moving, transparent, and energetic situation. This vividness is underlined through the fact that the works remain unresolved. There are always areas where something still needs to be filled in, to be completed by the beholder.
In the way the lines are drawn, I feel an awareness of how difficult things can be. Occasionally there is pain or discomfort involved. Colorful does not just mean happy – the way color is used here refers more to thoughtfulness, and looking for nuance. Things easily get out of balance, the current sense of world order is fragile. And there is beauty in being able to transport that feeling into ways of painting. While there is a constructivist mind behind the paintings at work, there is also a sense that earthquakes happen, easily deforming what was carefully constructed and controlled.
Zeilner told me about the Japanese word ma, which indicates the negative space – the “emptiness” between two columns, or the space under a table. There is much to be found in what, from a functional point of view, is just “nothing.” Indeed, space appears explicitly as emptiness in Zeilner’s work, in white or greyish patches, and it is quite important, supporting the colors and lines, making them extra visible. Just like invisible air is important for an airplane to stay up in the sky.
To some extent, one can trace a development of reduction in Zeilner’s work throughout the years. The colorful density of some earlier works, such as Bar (2014), has made place for transparency and the conscious use of empty spaces, such as in Stau and in Sims (both 2018). The early works, you could argue, are more descriptive; they present scenes, suggest stories, and are tied to the world of phenomena and how we experience it. A bar full of people, cowgirls populating a saloon. They make a contrast with the tough cowboys who usually figure in the saloons of our imagination. Through this work, the artist inscribed herself in a certain genre: the narrative café painting. Recent paintings tend to move away from such concrete scenes or genres, and instead focus on balance and cohesion, on the abstract qualities of a painting, even though they still have their starting point in real-life scenes.
It is too early to state that this is a progressive, ongoing development within the artist’s oeuvre. She could very well return to denser scenes, or paint both types simultaneously. What is clear though, is that an expansion of expressive attitudes has taken place over the years. Both dense and empty compositions are important in the works, both action and calmness are part of the equipment. Probably the calmness as it appears in the recent works could have only happened after the artist worked through lots of dense and literally crowded material. A more detached perspective or a structural intuition was only possible after engagement with many detailed scenes.
During a stay in Thessaloniki to prepare for an exhibition, Zeilner and I took walks through the city. She stopped to look at the play of branches of a leafless winter tree that was casting a shadow on the balcony of a house. In such moments, it becomes clear how the artist looks at things. Here is where reality and its projection on a flat surface (the balcony could just as well have been a piece of paper, a canvas) come together. This is how she singles out one motif, while moving through a busy street scene.
People who like to walk in cities know that, along the way, you start to connect points – there are moments of convergence and recognition. The map of the city has an echo in a mental map, with crossings and meeting points, slowly filling with memories. Similarly, while drawing and painting, points of convergence occur. A sense of relationships, an understanding of the whole, is transmitted through the very act of painting or drawing. Things past and present come together.
Whereas walks through Vienna are rewarding in bringing a certain mindset and the experience of sliding through different periods of history, Zeilner’s paintings escape the historical dimension, just as they detach themselves from geography. They start but then emancipate themselves from concrete times and places. In the end, they are about perception and experience: light, color, density, energy, calmness, openness, closedness.
The stance that Zeilner takes as an artist in the world is between subjectivity and objectivity, between giving an expressive or intuitive response to the world’s phenomena and a more reflective and constructive view on things, without getting carried away in the details. Her art does not appear as particularly psychological or overtly emotional, nor does it aim at staging the artist as an individual in an explicit way. This painting comes from engaged observation, sometimes from enchantment, or from being touched, but also from the artist keeping her cool, staying attentive to what is, just as it is. More generally, you could say, it comes from seeing possibilities in what is given, and paying respect to that. There is attachment to the world, in a perceptual way, and there is freedom to transform.
The artist is always observing – that is where the work starts. If she is alone in a foreign city, she sits down in a café and draws. That is her way of rooting herself. Drawing as a way to come home, no matter where you are. The drawing delivers an outline, a starting point, an architectural stage. And then, back in the studio, things start to shift. What seems straight and solid becomes curved and fragile. We see things through the artist’s hands. It becomes matter that matters, colorful lines to walk.
by Jurriaan Benschop, 2020
The city of Vienna, where Gerlind Zeilner has been living since her studies at the art academy, nurtures her imagination as an artist. The time she spends walking, cycling, or sitting and drawing in cafés anticipates the paintings that she makes. I wonder if her paintings would be any different if she lived somewhere else. Is the city’s cultural fabric part of the content of her work? Or is Vienna just the favorable setting for this work, disappearing from sight once we enter the realm of painting? After all, painting is about transformation.
As a regular visitor, I always find things in Vienna a little different than in the city where I live, Berlin. Both cities are burdened and adorned with history, and both are very much European, but in different ways, showing different wrinkles of the continent’s aged face. Quite a lot of the architectural substance in Vienna has survived the world wars, just as traditions have, and through that the city shows a great historical diversity.
Zeilner introduced me to different aspects of Viennese culture, and did so with enthusiasm. She recommended that I take walks through different Bezirke, of which I always mix up the numbers, and not forget to step into some historic cafés like the Loos American Bar, or to climb the Strudlhofstiege close to the Palais Liechtenstein. I followed that advice and realized that simply being surrounded on a daily basis by so many different layers of history, with endless stories to be imagined in the Gassen and behind the facades, easily invites a person to make mental detours through the past. It affects one’s state of mind and sense of time, especially when at the same time, one is interested in the current visuals and reality of the city. The artist seems thankful to be in Vienna. She does not take it for granted that she finds in her daily surroundings impulses to root, to respond to and create from.
She likes to go inside cafés, sitting down to observe and draw. The Loos American Bar, built in 1908 by Adolf Loos and still located in the Kärntner Durchgang, is where Zeilner used to go in the mornings in order to find a free table in the space where seats quickly become scarce. Another drawing was made in Café Korb, one of the oldest Viennese coffee houses, situated in the first district, where I met the artist for dinner. She pointed to the wooden furniture and the glass lamps hanging from the ceiling as part of what she was interested in. What you can see in her work is how figures and their environment are interrelated. And how solid matter and the surrounding space are equally important. The attention does not go to the individual guests or the conversations they make (an aspect I would be drawn to as a writer, to catch storylines), but rather to how the lines of figures or furniture curve, how these aspects interrelate visually. Air is something you do not pay attention to in a café (unless it is missing), but in Zeilner’s paintings you do. To grab the visual relationships, she has to choose, to decide what is important and what is not, and to bring the diverse visual information back to some basic lines that guide us over the white paper or canvas. She gives directions for looking, you could say, by leaving some aspects out and highlighting others.
Mostly, it is hard to pin down the exact location where the work originates, unless the artist mentions it or gives it away in the title. The work is not about creating a souvenir, or pointing to a place that we may want to visit on this or that street. Rather, it is from the friction with reality where the work springs forth and becomes interesting. It is about breaking free from the world as it looks, to reinvent it. Painting, in Zeilner’s case, indeed seems to be about transformation at least as much as it is about representation. For the artist, the painted motifs float between their thematic origin and their abstract transformation. The artistic standpoint that I extract from the work is that a fixed representation of situations is an illusion. Things are in flux, vibrant, with a tendency to change, and that is a reality that painting should come to terms with. If we still want to state that the work shows something recognizable, we should take it to an abstract level and say that the artist draws energy, vividness, or atmosphere.
Part of the work springs from trips to the countryside, up in the mountains – often in the familiar surroundings of Austria, but travels to Greece and the United States have also led to new works. On the move, new works are created, or at least the beginnings of them. A residency in Tyrol was the source of some drawings and paintings made in 2018, such as Tux, which refers to the name of a village. Family trips close to Salzburg, at the foot of the Untersberg, have also initiated multiple works. Once out of the city and among the cows, there is a different mindset, a fresh wind that blows through the mind and body. Things get less dense, while the receptiveness for color in nature delivers a different focus. Up in the mountains, close to Semmering, spring arrived three weeks later than in Vienna, the artist noticed one year. As she arrived there, the green of the leaves was still fresh and showed many different tones. This “second spring” offered Zeilner a chance to see how green starts, while at her home in Vienna, the greens had already blended into just one overall color.
When considering Zeilner’s artistic roots, one should not only think about the physical environment of city or landscape, but also about artistic ancestry, in this case early modern artists like Vincent van Gogh, Pierre Bonnard, or Paul Cézanne, painters who had a heightened sensibility for light and movement, and who used short brushstrokes and fragments to evoke a larger whole. I would not connect these painters to Zeilner so much stylistically, but through their dynamics and method of composing, bringing rhythm and a sense of direction into the works. The paintings are, in a way, very truthful to perception as it unfolds in constant movement. And they are modern in the sense that the palette has opened up: color does not have to correspond to how it was observed in nature or elsewhere. Of course there are many other and more recent painters – from Willem de Kooning and Maria Lassnig to Dana Schutz – who are relevant to Zeilner, but the root of her approach can be traced back to early modern painting, in which the world was taken apart into little fragments, in order to form it anew. It is a starting point from which her work takes its own turn on things, and that delivers an architecture that is able to house contemporary experiences.
From drawing comes painting. That is to say, selected drawings created on walks through life give the artist the impulse to make a canvas and continue to work with a single motif. And then the transformation goes into the next round. In the studio, the life extract that is captured in the drawings connects itself to the artist’s vision of objects around her, like a window ledge, a chair, or a mop in a bucket. The world remembered and observed merges with the immediate physical surroundings, things lying around in the studio, and the energy at hand with the thoughts of the day. In Mop (2018), you can see the mop as a diagonal through the image. The part to wipe the floor is taken off, put to dry on the bucket. But it is hardly important that it is a mop – nobody is going to clean here. It is a placeholder for color. Mop is a dense and vibrant work. By contrast, one of the latest paintings I see in the studio, Schnittlauch (2019), strikes me because of its monumental simplicity. There is just a vase holding some flowers, the stems merely being stripes of paint. Painting a motif on such a big scale could easily be an overstatement and even appear rhetorical. But the quality of the work resides exactly in its actual size. It makes a perfectly calm painting, both fragile and strong. A painting for which, I assume, many other smaller ones had to be made first in order to become familiar with motif and scale.
The titles of the works – often consisting of one word – refer to the motif that started each of the paintings. They do not necessarily explain or identify the work, but they are considered by the artist to be a fragment of a larger whole. They attach the work to a certain moment, give us a clue of where it started.
How are things connected, how are people related? These are recurrent questions underlying the work. The artist’s goal seems to be to unveil a poetic structure underneath appearances. A hidden map. She creates lines of sight that are both structural and intuitive. The drawing delivers the architecture of seeing rather than the details. And then, through color, handwriting, and movement in paint, a certain atmosphere is created, in some works loud and joyful, in others tense or silenced.
While visitors in a café do not usually consider themselves as being part of a larger group, the artist does. She is the “watcher” who is interested in the balance in the room, to point out relationships between figurative elements, to see how they formally belong together or make a contrast.
In Café Korb, we talk about the question of whether a good artist should also be a good human being, about the desirability of such symmetry between artistic and moral equipment – it is rather a romantic notion, currently out of fashion. Yet at some level, such a connection still exists, and one might wish for more of it. In Zeilner’s case, I sense that her way of looking as an artist assumes fairness in judgment and openness to the qualities of other human beings or surprises that the outside world may bring her. It is an attitude that presupposes real interest in the other, an open eye; without that, she would not be able to “steal” the energy of scenes or people or landscapes as she does. Without that, it would not transmit an unbiased feeling of life’s energy.
What do lines express, apart from being an instrument to depict an object or landscape, or to connect things? Do they have an expression of their own? There can be something nervous about the lines in Zeilner’s paintings; the way they are drawn expresses sensitivity for nuance and contradictions. There is often a change of color in an ongoing line, a hesitation in the execution, as if the artist did not want everything to look straight and doubtless. While the world can present itself as busy and overwhelming, the task of the artist here seems to be to cope with that, to bring things down to a manageable and insightful level. Painting could be seen like this: to show some kind of order within the multitude of forms and phenomena, to slow down the endless threads of stories that surround us and can easily carry us away, to reduce, yet without taking out life’s essence.
Zeilner’s way of “drawing painting” evokes proximity; it gives a sense of immediate touch, as if we can feel through the lines that the artist touched the material while defining forms. I see a special power in Zeilner’s work through this haptic quality, combined with her typical gestures that provide us with a kind of “thinking out loud” of the hand. The resulting aesthetic is active and vivid; it makes what we usually regard as solid forms (the structure of a café interior with all its furniture, for instance) as an open, moving, transparent, and energetic situation. This vividness is underlined through the fact that the works remain unresolved. There are always areas where something still needs to be filled in, to be completed by the beholder.
In the way the lines are drawn, I feel an awareness of how difficult things can be. Occasionally there is pain or discomfort involved. Colorful does not just mean happy – the way color is used here refers more to thoughtfulness, and looking for nuance. Things easily get out of balance, the current sense of world order is fragile. And there is beauty in being able to transport that feeling into ways of painting. While there is a constructivist mind behind the paintings at work, there is also a sense that earthquakes happen, easily deforming what was carefully constructed and controlled.
Zeilner told me about the Japanese word ma, which indicates the negative space – the “emptiness” between two columns, or the space under a table. There is much to be found in what, from a functional point of view, is just “nothing.” Indeed, space appears explicitly as emptiness in Zeilner’s work, in white or greyish patches, and it is quite important, supporting the colors and lines, making them extra visible. Just like invisible air is important for an airplane to stay up in the sky.
To some extent, one can trace a development of reduction in Zeilner’s work throughout the years. The colorful density of some earlier works, such as Bar (2014), has made place for transparency and the conscious use of empty spaces, such as in Stau and in Sims (both 2018). The early works, you could argue, are more descriptive; they present scenes, suggest stories, and are tied to the world of phenomena and how we experience it. A bar full of people, cowgirls populating a saloon. They make a contrast with the tough cowboys who usually figure in the saloons of our imagination. Through this work, the artist inscribed herself in a certain genre: the narrative café painting. Recent paintings tend to move away from such concrete scenes or genres, and instead focus on balance and cohesion, on the abstract qualities of a painting, even though they still have their starting point in real-life scenes.
It is too early to state that this is a progressive, ongoing development within the artist’s oeuvre. She could very well return to denser scenes, or paint both types simultaneously. What is clear though, is that an expansion of expressive attitudes has taken place over the years. Both dense and empty compositions are important in the works, both action and calmness are part of the equipment. Probably the calmness as it appears in the recent works could have only happened after the artist worked through lots of dense and literally crowded material. A more detached perspective or a structural intuition was only possible after engagement with many detailed scenes.
During a stay in Thessaloniki to prepare for an exhibition, Zeilner and I took walks through the city. She stopped to look at the play of branches of a leafless winter tree that was casting a shadow on the balcony of a house. In such moments, it becomes clear how the artist looks at things. Here is where reality and its projection on a flat surface (the balcony could just as well have been a piece of paper, a canvas) come together. This is how she singles out one motif, while moving through a busy street scene.
People who like to walk in cities know that, along the way, you start to connect points – there are moments of convergence and recognition. The map of the city has an echo in a mental map, with crossings and meeting points, slowly filling with memories. Similarly, while drawing and painting, points of convergence occur. A sense of relationships, an understanding of the whole, is transmitted through the very act of painting or drawing. Things past and present come together.
Whereas walks through Vienna are rewarding in bringing a certain mindset and the experience of sliding through different periods of history, Zeilner’s paintings escape the historical dimension, just as they detach themselves from geography. They start but then emancipate themselves from concrete times and places. In the end, they are about perception and experience: light, color, density, energy, calmness, openness, closedness.
The stance that Zeilner takes as an artist in the world is between subjectivity and objectivity, between giving an expressive or intuitive response to the world’s phenomena and a more reflective and constructive view on things, without getting carried away in the details. Her art does not appear as particularly psychological or overtly emotional, nor does it aim at staging the artist as an individual in an explicit way. This painting comes from engaged observation, sometimes from enchantment, or from being touched, but also from the artist keeping her cool, staying attentive to what is, just as it is. More generally, you could say, it comes from seeing possibilities in what is given, and paying respect to that. There is attachment to the world, in a perceptual way, and there is freedom to transform.
The artist is always observing – that is where the work starts. If she is alone in a foreign city, she sits down in a café and draws. That is her way of rooting herself. Drawing as a way to come home, no matter where you are. The drawing delivers an outline, a starting point, an architectural stage. And then, back in the studio, things start to shift. What seems straight and solid becomes curved and fragile. We see things through the artist’s hands. It becomes matter that matters, colorful lines to walk.
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