Manuel Schneider & Mathis Pfäffli at Oslo10
We were standing in an extensive hall between long walls built out of moldy greyish-red brickstones, behind us a pitch black wall of nothing. About one and a half meter from the ground a yellow line was painted in thick shiny resin along the whole visible length of the space. At the far end the massive tube seemed to turn slightly to the right, as if it would form a huge unconnected curved hollow pipe out of bricks and concrete.
The growing weed breaking through the ground was slightly trampled down now an then by previous visitors, as we assumed. Ivy and other plants merged with porous steel beams to solid tree stems.
Over our heads fleshy pipes were following from one crippled engine to some jammed chimney, maybe, or from a starved tank to a constipated outlet, or whatever these ducts were intended for originally. One of the cracked leathery hoses was slowly leaking a dark coagulated mush on the ground and forming a bubbling tumorous puddle between crumbling chunks of concrete. Strands of wires and threats were hanging from the walls and between skeletons of old framework. Under our feet, in the ground, lied scar-like half buried brownish-red encrusted railtracks.
Above all that bareness of abandoned interconnections and the sound of liquid oozing through thousands of leaks and cracks, a memory of a far primordial sound hummed to us, like a warning without a language.
Somewhere in all that weird interwoven cluster of architecture and logistics, we found a dazzling blueish-white tube of glass piercing trough the dry shrubs like a snake on a white and perfectly paved tile floor. It’s shape formed an upper scale U and it seemed as if there was something glowing from the inside, as if, whatever it contained, was self-conscious enough to just exist on its own, for its own.