5/3 kl. 20.00
Äntligen är det dags för årets första släpp på CLP Works!
Varmt välkomna på releasefest för Jenny Kalliokuljus poesidebut:
R O D I N I A. Det vankas intervju med poeten, läsning och performance samt livekvartett!Ca kl 20.00 intervjuas Jenny av Magdalena Rozenberg (litteraturredaktör på Floret och kritiker), därefter läser Jenny ur R O D I N I A assisterad av Ola Paulson.För kvällens livemusik står Utsira.
Boken finns att köpa till releasepris 120kr. Endast kontanter eller swish på plats!
R O D I N I A är en triptyk om tillblivelse, havande och död – en urmodershymn, en rapport om moderniteten och en dialog mellan författare och litterär gestalt. Rodinia är ryska för hemland. Det är också namnet på en av de superkontinenter som föregick Pangea.
Jenny Kalliokulju (f. 1986) är konstnär verksam i Malmö. Hon har tidigare studerat vid Städelschule i Frankfurt am Main, Kungl. Konsthögskolan i Stockholm och Författarskolan i Lund.
5/3 kl. 20.00
Finally it is time for this years first release on CLP Works!
We warmly welcome you to a releaseparty for Jenny Kalliokuljus poesidebut:
R O D I N I A. The poet will do a reading, be interviewed and live music will fill the atmosphere.
20.00 Jenny will be interviewed by Magdalena Rozenberg (Editor at Floret and critic), after the interview Jenny will, assisted by Ola Paulson, read from R O D I N I A.
rad av Ola Paulson.Utsira will perform live.
The book will be sold for a special price: 120 kr.
R O D I A N A is a triptych of conception, pregnancy and death – a hymn from the ancestress, a report on modernity and a dialogue between the author and literary figure. Rodinia is Russian for native country. It is also the name of one of the preceding supercontinents Pangaea.
Jenny Kalliokulju (b. 1986) is an artist based in Malmö. She previously studied at the Städelschule in Frankfurt am Main, Royal. Art in Stockholm and Writing in Lund.
Long time no/ sea is deeper/ then Cretan Porphyra/ (Heracles’s dog’s purple phase) Smelling;/ Fishy business/ Like empty shells/ there’s no substance in this letter/ just an earthy report/ from “tourist”/concerning John/ Smooth sailing muddy rivers/ of bodily waste/ a pell-mell cluster of organs/ any one of which could betray the other/ And when I say “bodily” I mean the kind that slits like lettuce/ purple jam/ slips through your fingers/ And when I say “fear” I mean the kind you feel seconds before smashing into a stonewall/ Body’s ending/ like this postcard/ like tearing Romana/ or cutting throats on Youtube/ Carpaccio (the old roman painter)/ said; no newness in the name of human territory/ Nowness is nothing like a holiday/ like the ocean/ is a mindscape/ A pond becomes a lake, a handful of dust a desert, a grain of sulfur in the blood is a volcanic inferno/ Purple is a certain journey/ like postcards instead of emails/
The caveman rockscapes into a cheap motel (mistaking it for something static, an eternity of form) painting horses on the wall/ two-stars-cozy-all-you-can-eat/
(In the mud-hole) golden wad of hair/ belongs to Alice, said; the history of being/ is the story of boundaries/ zones of geometric abundance and oceanic emotions/ Dear John; all people shit/ everyone sleeps in the purple palace of nothingness/ Joe is sleepless/ moonwalking tiptoe through tulips/ taking a vacation (said as a proverb)/ a salutation is something that bleeds/ till death (like gods and rocks, like the colossus of Rhodes)/ Like the cheetah, her black tears ends with a grin/ in the corners of her mouth/ The realm of bodies is playing chicken/ Humpty Dumpty/ traces of the real/ a semiotic animal reappears/ on the wall/ lilac Pegasus/ cheesy breath/ What comprises a cheese-hole is a mystery made up of itself/ like Joe/ black matter/ sunset-waters of Kos/ forgetting bad times (yet to come)/ Poor Johnny’s running (from his name, again)/ from a fairy-tale monster/ hiding under the tulip with Alice (merged so perfectly like salad al fresco) said; dry my tears with your tulip petals / so soft/ her name is like that song; / Buzzing/ under the tulip/ with your fingers in the mud/ Joe is stuck/ with concussion in a cheap motel/ gathering his army of stones (terracotta-clones)/ placing objects in the counter of found and lost-lost and found/ At dawn (at the mini-bar afterparty)/ Guests are pissing in the fountain/ staying lukewarm in Euclidean geometry/ Ask Alice if she ever wanted to tear her petals/ Ask the architects about the obsolete, about the colossus/ Ask illegal immigrants how to escape/ from things that are; are not/ visions of what is yet to come /sub Pompeii /cocktail-sipping hangover/ Purple is what’s remaining/ of things that have not yet occurred/ what failed to disappear/ drops of blood/ on the surface/ olive seeds/ in the water/ John’s afraid/ counts, measures, repeats;/ there are no sharks, no jellyfish, no rip currents/ a language of measured circumferences, predefined routes/ defined areas/ like the flat body of a postcard/ he approaches the sea (or the wall)/ and turns, protrude from reliable edge/ Joe chose a picture of purple tulips (again)/ reminds him of Alice/ her eyes/ like if the water was her anatomic essence/ His concert is a sonata buried under the sand/ I mean gravel in a dialectic sense/ As in, tomorrow/ as in human shit will be golden, glamorous/ relying on the memory of the colossus/ Asphalt will cover/ mummify bodies/ Alice wishes she could turn her petals into dust/ Johns’ mind is subject to interrogations concerning his disappearance/ on the beach/ he will be categorized as an outdated method of psychotherapy/ Mad Joe; what a trip/ sub sun/ sunburned Ra drowning in the Mediterranean sea (it’s novel, holiday-reading)/ a further chain of events/ liquor-eyes spotting cheese/ Bedtime-snack/ Life is filled with black holes/ Poor Johnny is decomposing/ in the abyss/ in a spermwhale coffin/ If there’s an itching; a nettle between your shoulder blades/ write Alice your location; / she’s like the ocean/ seamless/ John is habitation/ with no name/ Dear Alice/ greetings from ancient islands/ the water is warm/ sunny whiffs of salt and/ tulip flowered-toilet paper/ By my window a purple horse is tied to the wall/ I’m calling him Joe.
/baːkləˈvaː/ phantom tail
Soloshow at Toves, Copenhagen
Opening: Friday, October 17, 17–20.
Finissage: Saturday, November 8, 12–16.
An afternoon with pink milk and freshly baked baklava served at Queen of Sheba’s palace.
Curated by Christian Jeppsson & Simon Damkjær
Thanks to Marie Palomaki Norberg, Johan Österholm, August Valentin, Sofia Ivarsson,
Kerstin & Jukka Kalliokulju, Queen of Sheba & Café Miao.