Be it through the written medium or her sculptural practice, Latvian artist Ieva Kraule conjoins scattered pieces into fragile, amusing and mysterious combinations.
Of what it is hanging from, that should never be discussed. Suffice to say that it hangs, for now. Of where those ropes ascend to, what sort of heavenly pillar or darkened pit welcomes them, no word should risk to burn our lips. Let us be content by the way these fragments are allowed to know each other, hold one another for a while. Verboseness is to be equally withheld on the topic of the autumnal flayings and the true face of yellow. Rejoice presently and thank the moistness still helping your tired eyeballs roll along, nurture gratefulness even as the skin slowly cracks. Ask not for its patterns to make sense or for them to light your way.
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