Natalie Häusler

Facing pages /

an extra-capsular abyss

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There is some fruit on the table. It is arranged specifically in order of the absent individual’s preference of taste. The absent individual has left the table. The originating point of preference of taste has been lost. The fruit is simply on the table.

A swath of color inhabits black presence – pure toner – in collapsible movement. A template of encompassment separates the leaning of remote embodiment into the act of containment. It is a strand of shifting frequencies. It is a crumpling of experienced language – synthetic in its mechanical output, pure in its own authorial extinguishing. It is a preservation of what is extinguishable, what can be spoiled. It is in layers.

The fluid stretch across planes shifting levels positions the viewer within a mixture of expired moments, a memory, sensory details and objects (the fruit, the poem, the mechanics). A wash of bits spectrally marks the material with a possession simultaneously grounding and hypnotic. Liquid tension eliminates all borders. The space is inhabited by a pure tone of recently uprooted foundation – it is a sea of process, slicked into activity only accountable to those who wander into it or away from it. The uneven flow of practical and chemical pressure mimics fictionalized cerebral tides.

How could the mecha-luminosity of a fabricated landscape stimulate unforeseen fluid outcomes from the viewer?

The surface is the viewer’s mirror. What is placed, left, or forgotten on the surface stares back in its permanence. The surface absorbs any sensory detail and eliminates its immediate resonance. An invisible barrier between the space between the user and the surface isolates any momentary sensation, as if an absent individual had laid a thin cloth over the surface, able to mouthed, touched, or dipped but unable to finally soak through.

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Memorial taste is an eclipse of chemical,
an often-sought trigger of malignant

archivists.

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The user enters the space. The space is constantly reconstructed – constantly concrete – to conform to an integral landscape of inner-alienation, not an establishment: a foreground that is complimented only by the presence of the inhabitant. Each entrance is an interaction of a collapsed/contained sensory simulation. Each entrance constructs an isolated sensory cohesion: the invisible physicality of language mends the space between material and surface. Language adds an extramarital atmospheric space between the user and the work. It is thick.

The absence of an actual present foundation is the participatory willingness of the user to enter the frozen moment of the work. The surface is only the remaining acute sensory detail that has purged reactionary presence from motivated execution into the stuck object.

There is a thick atmosphere permeating the residual space. There is a thick atmosphere situating the residual space. There is a thick atmosphere permeating the residual space situating the user within it. The user meshes the thin fabrics of atmospheric presence and visible space. The ability for all of this material, space, and inhabitance to deconstruct is possible through the reconstruction of what was constructively shed in the initial experience. It is then a string of alienated incidents: a footstep in shavings, a light alternating spatial majority into cornered sectors of a room, a long layer of silk, a mockery, a warped spiral of snapshot-language specifically filtered through a single linguistic lens, a piece of fruit next to a poem, a jellyfish, a motion of form through light-scanned repetition, a high resolution handrail into corners of full color, and a copy. It creates columns to support the space – an umbrella of impressions made on surfaces. It all becomes pigment washing over textile.

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The moment when associative memory

spurs: the surface, handled and

absorbed.

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The fruit – in all of its generic austerity – sinks into the surface. An arrangement is observed (not constructed) as if taste could obscure a palette. The fruit materializes spectrally. Its insignificance matched only by its tepid appearance within the thin toner membrane. The lush innards of the fruit remain unearthed in a two-dimensional stasis. The eminent rot, spoiling, and unsavory deflation of the fruit is eliminated. Its taste is put on reserve. Its iconography stabilized. It’s holding.

A preservative of optional chance: the numbered, marketable object potentially guiding the viewer to a mouthwatering stupor.

At the unmet corners, if deflated, the collapsed prints would bracket and smear derivative colors into isolated swabs. A nod (or nodding) to instant technical reproduction scales a wall in series. A ground cut of institutional layering – the kind that keep feet moving – is housed without paste, replenishing their loss of solidity with a new touch. The hand reconstructs formatted copies of encountered landscapes in an established touch offering a droll plastering of splintered spectrum among myriads of alternating grayscale.

Is the intrusion of sensory-connective color into the dry-dusted compression of foundational dominion blissful? It is the mechanical imitation of quickly seen color fading out of motion that is captured post-productively and remembered as signifiers of lived moments, as if it is a lullaby to the creation of these forms in the apparatus. It is an often interruption.

What about a piece of fruit?

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A regular object placed inside irregular

intervals of process glides smoothly

under a surface.
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An austere gesture is hidden within cavalcades of collapse. An austere gesture is a pattern of the unnecessary inhabitant within a compilation. The strict embedment of specific flagged chapters of a crumpled systemic organization is treading bureaucratic water pushing. The austere gesture is revealed in the sketch of order – the incomplete wandering of development, or the inalienable initiative of light movement, burying significance in reductive progression.

The user is getting too close to the branding of the institution here. The user doubles when an echo reflects surfaces into the language generated from the reading of the text – a separation from presentation and consumption. The generated text differs from the language generated from the reading. This movement of generations from pigmented depiction to faux-marbled buoyancy lapses transference of recognizable material. The copy of architecture or text fogs out the sincerity of a claustrophobic space, malfunctioning as if the compiled couplings could be parsed out, uncoupled, and filed appropriately.

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A layer of orange tiles asks surfaces to

mimic pages facing the viewer, facing

pages.

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Pure toner – the liquid wash of the aliened individual present in mechanics – recalls the interruption of a clean perception. The distortion had yet to retract synaptic shavings of sight, had yet to reconfigure the shards of shattered optical formations, had yet to disrupt adhered tile, had yet to envision the slow melt of a liquefied grid, and had yet to concrete the confusion of error within the mechanics of execution.

Layers of the work are strict in their methods of execution – mechanical, individual, and circular. The layers loop, circling content, creating a myriad of subject matters – a mix of falling definition distorted by the presence of delay. The layer that is alien – brighter and late in the replication process – is the layer of the user’s experience. It is folded politely within the residual space of everything else.

The loop in the execution returns the user to the wash of it all. It lapses transparency over an unsinkable sensory response to cover oneself with it all – to continuously converse limbs into repetitions of predictive copies of what continuously conversing limbs would be if these limbs would structuralize. This rendering of possible moving limbs is a mirroring of the user within the function of the loop – the reflection of the individual within the pure toner.

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The surface as an absence/or the

usable territory facing pages and

pages rerouting absence together.

Facing walls in color/thin sheets in

faint mockery reshape publications

of opening air, the last factor exits.

The surface translucently transfers/

a solid haunt mechanizes availability

for physical visibility inter-relations.

Facing walls, like ink/there is an

exchange of use facing pages and

pages reusing absence for absence.

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Natalie Haeusler’s work is the immobile, penultimate faction of an object’s unnatural extinction from memory. The material has become unknown to the body encapsulating its perception. The real is extracted from the source of abstraction – it marinates within a myriad of time that is being shuffled and warped into an uneasy permanence (like a jellyfish within architecture). It is a fluid source – a liquid gesture – that permeates through the work, sheathing its spectral gleam into folds of mechanical process. Within this fluidity, the course of known or speculated settlement is listless. It has become a functionless image of the object’s presence mirroring its own abstraction’s source of emulation. The memory is now an alien shading of prior handling floating over emulated surfaces.

Or: a piece of fruit.

Or: something else.

Or: a weighted liquid displaced and suddenly caught within the machine, placing it amongst scaled reproductions of architecture, forgotten arenas, and the inevitable damp staining of lingering fluid.

Or: the personalized extraction of the original user (content developer) enveloped within the transforming surfaces of the authorized surface configuration. Colors shift underneath as printed darkened pastels merge with institutional tiling in a momentary collision scattered to fragmentary introductions.

Or: the feeling of being lost, simply.

Or: the toner of the mind’s eye, one could say.

Or: a collection of fruit and a reproduction of a collection of fruit in a temperature-controlled room.

Or: the endless assumption of ever-elsewhere trimming the inner-surface of any temporal space. An extra-capsular abyss below the pigment is forging experience, place, gesture, and process into a wash of processional faux-marbled bliss.