Gathering pieces of machines, mass produced objects and images of ethereal landscapes and ephemeral daily life scenes, Anna Solal from France suggests portals to other worlds and melodies for rituals composed by bike chains.
The board where the game is played is ages long. Each cubicle is assembled through fortuitous assemblages of forgotten crumbles under the table. The pieces, confronting and evading, smell of feathers discarded in fast flight. Dice are thrown, the numerals adorning their six faces a tally of all the misremembered faces, faded patterns of childhood walls and not-quite-bereft of taste chewing gum spitted out too soon. The rule book is inexhaustible, the clarifications twice so, but there are no end goals, no way of ever winning nor loosing. All that is possible is a draw, where everyone agrees to forget.
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