For dutch artist Natasja Kensmil, History is an intricacy of cruelty, holly vows and the generations of artists who could only use that dark ink to record it all.
The terse light reaches the trilobite’s sensory pits in broken up notes. Making its way across primeval waters, the living architecture of its being was never meant to be confronted with the opening of the seals. Thus, exoskeleton turns to open grave. A golden trumpet grabs it by its many arms. The ocean is now old wallpaper peeling off a wall made of dark and dusty wings. Shaking and fluttering angels pump the blood of saints into the holy engine, cut off the heads of traitors, harmonize the melodies of the wailing and gnashing of teeth. Enshrined is the fallen arthropod, fossilized its knowing smile.
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