Linn Halvorsrød & Mørket, Samuel Andreae, Mikko Savela

REVIEWS by Franziska Mucha



Rustling, sitting, waiting, swishing

There’s something, hiding around the corner, curtains, pulsating in expectant light, the audience harrumphs, chairs move…they are waiting, we are waiting till, 1 2 3 steps, a black character places itself in front of the orangeness, frozen streetart. Silence, no face, no hands, no skin. Dementor-like resting in front of us, the silhouette is standing with legs wide apart, with ostentation, with ghetto blaster, enjoying the quiet before the storm, ready to rumble. A sound rebel soaked in attentive silence, who is going to throw the first stone?

And then… more blackness, more creatures move out of their hideout, into our unknowing sight, attached to our seats we can only observe every slow movement, they gang together, one bunch of dark mutants, Mørket dawns the scene and Linn Halvorsrød is their master of ceremony. Put down the machine. Rock’n’Roll. The tape hits in…bubbling, gurgling, bleeding out of the cassette deck, slowly the gang sets in motion, connected through the sound of silence, nature, traffic, the puppets learn to walk, with zombie speed, floating the gallery, crossing boarders of audience and stage. Are you looking at me? Do zombies like art?

Everyone an island of their own, exploring a body, extending the grasp, gaining our space. Wrapped into darkness and hopeless, no improvement, no intention though reaching for something invisible, is this dying or living? The night of the living death draws to a close, a desperate acceleration shakes the puppets, in agitation they are trembling, bending forth and back, asking for mercy or alms, words a very unnecessary. When the creatures back down, we are alone with this uncertain feeling, we were almost there…light chatter from the zombie backstage relieves us, clapping evolves, it was only a dream, it was only a dream.

Mørket 1* * *


Do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it now

Do-it-yourself, Samuel Andreae, home improvement, has build up its scenery, a landscape, a private collection of self-made toys, the table is set, come come and play. We hear the creaking of the kitchen door, silently sirens howl from somewhere down there, following the nostalgia we find ourselves put in children shoes, glimpsing from the stairway into the studio, the sacred hideaway where one can follow one’s pleasure, working along the continuum of playfulness. Holy seriousness, occupied with something you can only guess, the amateur is constantly morphing into the skilled illusionist, evoking a microcosm of squeaking little memories. Wet skin rubbing in the bathtub, endless patience unfolds, every moment is right and allowed. In between the saxophone roars, untamed, half-baked, sound and silence. The concept of long duration, wholeness, everything is everything and with closed eyes we walk this way. Science of sleep. We meet the inhabitants of everyday boredom, the irradiated shaver is chatting with an empty can, baby babble in the back of our heads, flashlight, the leftovers of civilization subtly arranged on the workbench, telecontrolled, soft movements circling around the wooden box and when the sewing machine slowly ebbs away the spell is gone.

Samuel Andreae

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Pedals and cittern

Mikko Savela is disposing, sweeping over strings, clicking the machine and striking the gong. Everything whispers and resonates. Repeating ritual rhythms, the sound of jungle drums rises, a stomping beat, this boots are made for walking, pahpahpah. Sliding over his equipment, he pushes every functional unit into another loop of meaning, leading into crescendo and resistance, there’s no point of rest, but only struggle for supremacy, like fighting windmills, like running in circles, again and again and again. Demons need to be reigned, chaos is luring, waiting to overwhelm, when weakness strikes the apprentice gets bold, hoping to be set free, who mistake this steak for chicken, every misstep leads to outbreak, causes conflict, forces strive to unify…self-fullfilling prophecy, the warrior faces the ghosts he called, and chokes and squeezes and beats, every hit brutal and decisive, carefully leaning forward, just to bounce back the next second, anticipating every reaction of the electronic organism filled with humming and buzzing. And suddenly someone is singing, a radio, a tape, the voice of gods? Background noises interfere, the big calm, tired zapping through channels, click, click, click, game over.

Mikko Savela

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