Can an exhibition be something other than a conglomeration of works? Can it create a temporary zone in which the rules we use to conceive of reality – gravity, chronos, causality, you name it – don’t apply in the way we are accustomed to? Can an exhibition skew that which we consider given, can it fold onto itself to induce glitches, interruptions, wormholes into a different dimension – like sound evaporating from behind a stone wall with a source impossible to be localised – a room in which bodies appear sloped even though everything else seems to be upright – a corridor leading nowhere and everywhere at once?
The exhibition Fold by fold the widowed stone unrobes itself does not propose a definite narrative or argument to peruse. A system with its own logic, it comes into being in front of the eyes of the viewers, caressing our ears, permeating our noses, affected by our touch. It invites visitors to insert themselves into the ambiguous plot, to change it, to create it. Like mist hovering over the city of Bruges in Stéphane Mallarmé’s poem Remembering Belgian Friends, which lends the exhibition its title, the vapor making the houses and bridges gradually disappear, a sense of obfuscation worms its way into the exhibition. Once entered, it may well make us disappear as well. The border between reality and her deviant sister – call her fiction, the virtual, a scam – becomes increasingly blurry, indiscernible even. Fold by fold, certainty withers away, peeling off from the concrete walls and stony surfaces of the former heating plant housing EKKM.