黑料不打烊

2020 has become a meme. It has gone viral. We use it as an adjective, a state of being, our present condition merely a symptom of a cursed year that both drags on and flashes by in a befuddled haze. When we resist the urge to blame 2020 for causing these paralysing crises of health, racism, politics and ecology, it becomes clear that this year is a symptom of our essential human vulnerability. We mask and wrap and clad and enclose ourselves for protection, for shelter, for speed 鈥� but, underneath, our bodies are vessels that at once carry and receive. 

Alexandra Bircken has examined our bodily porosity through clothing and sculpture for several years. Her solo exhibition last year at Vienna鈥檚 Secession was titled Unruhe, which can translate to restlessness 鈥� disquiet - unease - agitation, and assembled a cast of objects that had been cut, dissected, and splayed out. Her sculptures are often human-like 鈥� skins of tights, deflated latex bodysuits, mannequins 鈥� yet amputated, warped, out of joint. The sense of Unruhe here at Herald St is heightened: like much pandemic art viewing, one cannot help but read works within this context. Lop Lop, a motorbike whose wheels have been replaced by rocking skids, moves gently, perpetually, back and forth, yet goes nowhere; its aerodynamic body designed for extreme speed rendered pointless.