Ov
PHARMAKON. Dernière conversation dans l'écume de tes commissures - Installation - 2019
présentée dans le cadre de l'exposition Panorama 21
Pharmakon is the remedy, or the poison.
Every opening day, at a certain time, a Last Conversation in the Foam at the Corners of Your Lips begins, a gestating cycle that you are invited to enter. In the creature’s damp lair, an inert form diffuses a dangerous conversation. From one awakening to the next, a detached entity insatiably goes hunting. The environment seems to form a layer of protection that it is difficult to transgress, yet lets out a few groans of stifled lives. The global body becomes cancerous and oozes liquid.
After these moments wrested from the nothingness that you resist, in the refuges of the breaches that you desire, there can be no more going back; it is too late to stay calm. That is what such an operation implies. There is a moment when you believe in each person’s importance, there is a monument when you have to wield the knives; this is the first step outside the circle. Which is necessary when the world is off its axis.
Praise in the flesh of the age that raises the midnight sun.
Praise in the margins.
Technosavages.
Let’s dance before we are spotted.
Let’s dance before we are torn apart.
Ov
Ov is a hybrid artist trained in augmented performance at HEAR of Strasbourg, in filmmaking at WITS University of Johannesburg and in digital creation at Le Fresnoy - Studio National des Arts Contemporains. Their work is both poetic and manifest. It questions alterity, power and control, our alienations and our resistances inside technological and social ongoing mutations. Their art works are acts of alert, defiance and empowerment. Ov is artist and activist, and considers their practice as one of the tactical gestures of a more global collective resistance.
[informal biography]
Ov emerges from wetlands. Ov heals, sleeps, eats, fucks, gets ready to attack. From an electrical impulse, from the depths of the bones, boiling undertow waters, Ov, suddenly, infiltrates the putrid mechanism of the monster machine, which, since time immemorial, strangled and destroyed. It is then that under the cloak of lead, at the hour of bloody events, Ov emerges in the cage and violently vomits a strange language. Enough to keep you blushing until dawn, Ov triggers the backwards rhythm of poison that is already coagulating in your dreams and in your viscera. From Ov nothing will be left. Ov is no one.
