Annika von Hausswolff writes about an image by Ola Åstrand
A reclined woman, her posture slightly askew. The image is cropped just below one breast. The other breast is not showing, assumingly resting intact just outside the frame. Actually, the perceptible breast is not there either. Not if you consider the place it ought to be in relation to the given anatomy of the body. The breast is hovering elsewhere. If you let your eyes glide along the outline of the body, it can be found to the right of the head. The nipple seems erected and points to the left. The breast looks like a spaceship about to be engulfed by a black hole.
The sophistication it takes to spot the difference between the real thing and the postcard version is rare among contemporary audiences. But a lack of attention needn’t be bad. Some things develop better in the shade.
When visiting Detroit last year, I encountered an abandoned school that caught my particular interest. I
was travelling with the economic historian, photographer and researcher Jan Jörnmark, visiting
abandoned sites in order to document effects of the ongoing globalization for an upcoming book.
The process is like an octopus sometimes, one of those disgusting octopuses with a big heavy occiput which looks like a cross between a fester and a water-filled balloon. In that head, in the mind, there is either a muscle visible under the skin, or else there aren´t any muscles at all, alternatively withered muscles and a lot of skin.
OK, stuff Foucault. We’re talking about Savannah Bob. In this case, the texts have been written in a situation where it was not possible to write without hiding behind a pseudonym. Anonymity is something else.
Prague, 1990. It is the summer after the Berlin wall came down. I’m having breakfast at Hotel Jalta – a communist style luxurious establishment. Eggs, bacon, jam and toast. I’m sitting on the terrace facing Václavské námesti, the city’s main parade