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Rikke Hansen


3 BOOK ESSAYS: 'Mur', 'Væg' and 'Dør' in Lene Desmentik's artist book Muren, Væggen og Døren, (Aarhus: ARK, 2015)

'The binding door forces me to choose. Should I keep it shut? Should I lock it at the risk of never being able to open it again? Or should I just close it gently and risk that it blows open in the middle of the night when the wind is raging? These questions bring others with them: Is a door that does not open still a door simply because it once did? And what about a door that cannot be fully closed? Can a door just assign itself to one of these purposes. When does a door become a wall? When is it simply a hole?'

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BOOK ESSAY: 'Circling the Topic' in Tanja Nellemann Poulsen's artist book Rundkørsler Du Ikke Kommer Uden Om, (Copenhagen: SPACE POETRY, 2014)

'Circles. Loops. Language comes back to itself and becomes metalanguage. Language about language. In this way, language is transformed, even revolutionized, while the stream of words continue. It is a quiet revolution. Oh what a word! “Revolution”! To revolve. To return to the starting point in a circular motion. And at the same time, to rebel. To break the cycle. How can one word mean both things at the same time?'

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EXHIBITION CATALOGUE ESSAY: 'Positions, directions' in HUMAN SITES sohn+isaksen's TOMMY/S KAHYT, (Aarhus: ARK, 2014)

'56° 08’ 49” N, 10° 12’ 46” E : She had a studio down by the docks. I visited her from time to time, but I actually cannot quite remember what her work was about. I remember the smells though. The stench of cow dung from the abattoir nearby. Invisible clouds of nauseating, suffocating, dense sweetness from the oil mill. The general and indescribable odour of industry. The smell of the sea as a note in the background. When you are young, the world is open. Only later do you lose your beliefs. We sat in the studio, dreaming of other, possible lives and all the world had to offer us. It was late. It often got late. One late summer night, at three in the morning, we were heading home. Back then, there was also a small metal foundry down by the harbour. We thought we were the only ones who were up, but a sea port does not close. A bright light shone from the foundry windows. The door was ajar. When you are young, you are brave. Only later does life teach you to be fearful. We went inside and asked what they were doing. The workers were in the process of casting Christmas stars. Those Georg Jensen stars that are coated with real gold. They hung in rows, suspended from the ceiling, shining in the warm night. Outside the sea and the sky met up in the horizon. Inside small suns were glowing, like greetings from other galaxies.'