The skin represents the limit of the human body.

It is our heaviest and largest organ, the one that stands like a thick partition between oneself and the world. The skin acts as a boundary as well as a threshold. A half-open door, where foreign bodies seep in, where the things we thought buried come knocking: red cheeks, a stress reaction. It's a memory slate, wherein a bruise or a scar is inscribed, or memories of significant events.

There is the epidermis, the dermis, the hypodermis. There are layers of skin, layers of cells, layers of stories. Within us, we constantly carry cells, older ones, those of our grandparents, prehuman apes, and carbon atoms millennia old. Our bodies contain stories that overwhelm us. We are the result of a slow sedimentation, of a mixture of materials and eras, rather than a clear outline that would extract us from the rest of the world.

Here, we discern bits of bodies, a gelatinous surface, a movement of fabric, the reflection of the street or of our own silhouette. The original image is altered, shifted, fractured by a series of impulsive and repetitive gestures. By multiplying the layers depth is created. The vitrine is here the surface of the exhibition room, a surface that reflects the outside, while revealing wounds, iInjuries, triggering an opening to the visceral.

From the street, we plunge into the depths, towards what is teeming, we plunge between the strata, towards forms we can't name, colours we've never seen before. If skin is a porous surface, it is also a place of exchange. It is through the skin that we perceive temperatures, pain, fingers crumpled by bath water, microbiota of bacteria. The body represented here is fragmented, perhaps bruised, but each fragment resonates with the others, the materials respond to, contain and reflect each other, revealing a flesh that is enlarged, invaded. It's a flayed skin, but a living, hybrid one that vibrates with everything that passes through, with the contaminations which it exposes itself to.

Text by Ella Stürzenhofecker