Khora

sssss

I can cure you
If you come with me to the dark places where not to go if you’re not it’s just me and you

[heat] [cicadas]

The place of otherness, emptiness, formation, potentiality of sensory perceptible materiality; Khora, emerges in the exhibition of Tereza Kalousová and Erika Velicková in the form of a sign referring to the architecture of Greek temples and theaters covered with sand and overgrown by bushes. The artists have established a dislocated place, hovering in the gap that a gallery in the city center, by itself, can be. They have created a space for contemplation, idleness and daydreaming over healing and signs and sharing the void.
In the spirit of poststructuralist thinkers, Kalousová and Velická appropriate and revise the notion of Khora as defined by Plato. In their reading, Khora (like the womb, the mother, or simply woman) is not an impure third species necessary for the exercise of reason, but a fertile, mysterious, creative force. The place at the edge of all matter, the silence that
is the condition for formation or transformation. An in-between space without whose permanence neither creation nor healing is possible.

I am
on top of a mountain
The wind is blowing
My hair is swirling around my head I can’t see
I can feel
I feel the cold on my cheeks
A whirlwind of which I am the center
Sand in my eyes
Soft earth
and a few stones under my feet
I’m the top of a mountain levitating over the landscape Landscape Temple

A place that isn’t
has many names
Sometimes it turns into a desert Sometimes not

[cicadas]

On a peninsula connected to the mainland only by a narrow strip of mud covered with a thin layer of salt. Pus of wool caught on thorns and rolled-out nests under the twisted branches of low trees remind us of the presence of sheep at an uncertain time. Here and there the hot air is stirred by the flapping of insect wings, at other times by a refreshing breeze from the sea. Every step causes the movement of locusts and the crackling of dried grasses.

We meet in the ruins of Asclepius’ temple and try to be quiet. Then, after a while of sifting sand through our fingers, we might speak. The echoes of the fathers’ voices will intertwine with ours for a while. In time, we will learn to recognize them and hear the voices of nannies, mothers, animals, all diering, even our own.

[cicadas]