Genre: Digital Painting
Material: Backlit, Printed glass, Fur
Carl Gustav Jung, the father of Analytical Psychology, had a dream at the age of three or four: He described a giant something in the underground that he would later decipher as oversized phallus, which, on top, had a single eye. Is this a metaphor for the omnipotent father? For the hybris that seems to be innate to the man? For the libidinous forces residing in the unconscious? However, this dream would be fundamental for his theories.
That’s the thing. Where this Jungian way of interpreting PURPLE HAZE might be obvious for some, others might see a reference to the virus in the first place: The “thing” is playing with everybody who’s trying to grasp it, for it, itself, has multiple hands that, one may bet, would regrow in a Medusian style every time one dares to rip them off. It pulsates, is gelatinous and boneless. It can deform and rebuild in a second. It can see, but does it have a will? If not, why then does it seem to laugh at all of us, as if it was about to say: I’m mutating faster than you can say hello?
Where is the place? Where are we actually? Is it some Purple Haze induced, psychedelic parallel universe or is it simply hell? If so, why is there some kind of degenerated sun that seems to exist only in order to put the “thing” – virus or penis or virus-penis – into a pathetic frame? The sky is bleeding. The water is burning. The hand is melting slowly. The thing is laughing at the man.
The happening = dying. The hand and the person it belongs to are desperately trying to understand, to control, to win. They are so much into wanting and desiring, that they are not even aware of the fact that they are – in fact – dying. They don’t seem to feel any pain – tout au contraire: There is lust, and it is multiplied by pain. L’enfer, c’est le sexe? Maybe not. Maybe death is the final orgasm.
Text - Martha Miklin
The Emperor's New Clothes
König Gallerie - Curated by Shahab Nedaei