Team Credits

Photography: Olivia Fremineau

Stylist: Tiphaine Menon

Make-up: Elodie Barrat

Hair: Yumiko Hikage

Model: Abril Shaw @ Nextmodels

Words by Eimi Tagore-Erwin

Fashion Credits:

1: Jacket by Sadak, sunglasses by Fendi

2-3. Earrings by Bimba y Lola; dress by Sportmax

4. Top by Sportmax, trousers by Drôme, brooch by Bonnie Bunny

5-6. Dress by Opening ceremony, earrings by Mouton Collet; eyelashes by Shu Uemura

7-8. Shirt by Victoria/Tomas, necklace by Lutz Huelle, cap by New Era; lipstick by Dolce & Gabbana

9-10. Trench by Wanda Nylon, t-shirt by Proemes de Paris, pink top by Sandro; bag by Michino

11-12. Fragrances by Miu Miu and Prada; shirt by & Other Stories, jacket by Sadak, sunglasses by Fendi

13. All shoes by Aperlai

14-15. Shoes by Pierre Hardy; dress by Lacoste, Sequined top, vintage

16-17. Brooch by Bonnie bunny

The big woman in front makes a grimace. She is a madrina, the godmother, a priestess of the Afro-Cuban religion santeria. The reason we are here together is to meet los muertos, my dead people, and ask for their advice. A dark room with the frames lighted from below. Picture of a ghostly white foot; my eyes caress it, nestle in the perfectly straight cut in the middle of it. They slip away through the face of a black man half-covered with a sheet, examine the hands crossed on somebody’s chest in an eternal gesture. AIDS Related Death, the title says. I am in the morgue with Andres Serrano at Fotografiska.

When the dead talk, the madrina listens carefully, with her head tilted towards an empty chair. She smokes the cigar together with the spirit. Then she turns back to me, explains in her figurative language, repeats, “Mami, copy me, mami.” She said I have a dead ancestor who protects me, the one from some region with large fields. “What do they reap there, mami?” The sugar cane, I respond, and suddenly everything makes sense, and I see my Cuban grandfather, the one who hanged himself in the middle of the street, next to me.

Did Serrano ever talk to his muertos when taking his utterly peaceful pictures in the morgue? Or did he ever hear the voices of his Cuban ancestors talking from the depths of santeria? His perfectly clean imagery of religious statues and his streams of blood, semen and piss seem so far away from the tropical, unbridled Cuban spirituality, enclosed in colourful figures, altars bedecked with flowers, flowing with honey and rum. Yet I still see the Madonna of Regla in his Black Mary. I see Yemaya, the goddess of the seas, in his Pieta, with the girl holding a carp pressed to her breast. The blood of Saint Lazarus leaks from his Bodily Fluids series.

I go out trembling. Is it because of the turtles watching me, because she said I have a limping ghost pulling my leg when I sleep, or because I need to buy a cake and drown it in the sea with the picture of me and my boyfriend in the middle of it? The furry head of El Gran Cabron and the nail piercing through the feet of the crucified Christ. The unholy red halo around the pope’s head. Tiny lights around the faceless figure of the Virgin Mary. Serrano’s fleshy, carnal spirituality hunts me as I try to slip unnoticed through the exhibition room. But the dead have already talked to me. The unearthliness stared through the photographer’s obsession with the bodily. Los muertos are here and there is no chance for redemption.

Credits:

Words by Weronika Pérez Borjas

All images by Andres Serrano from previous exhibition at Fotografiska Museum

#1 Chicken (2008) #2 Jaguar Shit (2008) #3 Semen Blood III (1990)

#4 Pieta (2012) #5 Virginian Dragoon .44 Magnum (1992) #6 Piss Christ (1987)

When I look at Eva’s paintings, I see a completely honest expression. This is all about survival; it’s evident that painting is vitally important to her. She has been painting for as long as she can remember, always drawing and painting throughout her childhood, through school and now, in her adult life, she continues on this path to develop her style.

Moreover, she is very adept at putting color nuances into building blocks, seemingly simple compositions but with a great deal of force. Eva early discovered that she was not interested in depicting the perfect perspective; she sought a more honest and more reporting vision which has resulted in these flared photos seen from above like in a scrapbook. With this effective vision we take note of everything that exists and takes place in the room, seen from different perspectives which engages the viewer to work with hers/his perception of things.

The absurdity is that everything seems normal; Eva does not have to show off, which is common among today’s artists. What we see is what we get, but it’s fascinating that the simple and mundane can hold so much power. Over the past 10 years I have seen Eva Kerek’s art move continuously toward simplification and truth, and it only gets better.

I’m really looking forward to following Eva’s career.
 But most important of all, Eva is a survivor who has something to tell and will make herself heard far and wide.

Credits:

Words by Axel Mörner, edited by Gustav Bagge.

Some of the images have been cropped.

Eva Kerek

Thursday 27th of June, 12:00, Stureby 59°16’38.0″N 18°03’28.6″E

The timely skullcrushing by what I imagine is my anti­nihilist conscience, as welcome as it is deserved, as I reach for some Treo/Aspirin (whatever) over at that table that should be right beside my bed, far away. I hit my teeth on the rim as I greedily gulp one week old water from my moms finest crystal glass. I think. A beam of light manages to fight it’s way through the blinds. A battle I right now wouldn’t fight for all the money in the world. It hits the glass and the light that remains in this reflection hits my retina, sharp. I’m down (and out).

17:18, Carmen 59°18’54.4″N 18°04’34.1″E

“I’m done with my master thesis in two months, I have no idea what I’m gonna do after that though”. Observing Sara as she aimlessly peels of the label of her Karhu, beer of the week, of infinity, while Björn replies with his non ­answers. “My mom thinks I should change to physics next year. Bigger chance to get a job, more pay, but I don’t know, could be fun, but who knows what you should do?”. “My dad changed from mechatronics to physics his second year, says it was much more fun. He’s at Ericsson now”. Sara finishes off the last piece of the label still bearing any resemblance to paper, rolls it between thumbs, puts in mouth, spits in my lap.“Did anyone watch Dexter last night?”. “Yeah, it’s so good”. “Yeah”. I pick up my Karhu and put it against my lips. Before I indulge I see the reflection of Sara in Björn’s eyes, and then back again, Björn in Sara’s. For a moment I think I see my mom. I didn’t.

20:22, Dovas 59°20’08.2″N 18°01’58.1″E

The refraction of some guys flowery shirt through my Falcon is beautiful. Staring for too long, at least I think so, it’s hard to keep track of time when they talk. Five people. Odd names. Living together. In a house. Cynically loving everything. “Went to Fotografiska yesterday, wasn’t as good as last time I think”. “Which one was it last time?”. “I don’t remember the name”. “Liebowitz?”. “Maybe”. Someone rolls a cigarette, asks if someone want’s to join outside, no one wants to. They just went. The cigarette slowly leaves the table, floats off towards the door, outside towards a slow cremation. “Anna started working Acne last week”. “Productions?”. “No, the store”. “Which one?”. “I don’t know. I think she can get me a job there though”. “But you said last time you were gonna apply to that writer school in London, that one Sara’s mom went to?”. “Yeah I know, but i thought i could always wait a year. No stress. Nice to work there you know? And I’m still not sure about journalism”. “Okey”. Outside the window the fag falls to the ground. One second of peace. Then flattened and squished by Our Legacy. The conversation gets lost in some kind of smoke. Future. Past. Politics. Right. Left. Up. Down.

02:13, HTL 59°20’03.6″N 18°03’32.7″E

Someone just stumbled and fell into some of the people I’m here with. Trying to apologize in some strange Donnie Darko way. They leave swiftly and people get on with their conversation. “So then I had to work all night and couldn’t get up to get to the sample sale”. “Yeah, but that’s standard these days. I have no free time these days”. “I know”. “Luckily work is fun still”. “I don’t know, I think I’m getting tired of this industry”. “No your not, you love it”. “Yeah, maybe”. Heads are turning like Kodak Carousels, projecting themselves in each others faces. No one is safe here. Still you are among your friends. Someone drops a glass of chardonnay. But there is no sound. Above people are sleeping in their rooms. In one someone is coming. “I really liked your last article!”. A guy I know comes up to me and starts to talk about work. “My dad’s company is looking for a copywriter. You should call him”. I’m just about to answer. They turn around. Saw someone else they knew. Starts to talk with them now. I’m alone again. As I was.

04:22, Somewhere ?”N ?”E

Water is hitting the docs beneath two pairs of dangling legs. Converse and Nikes. The first ray of light finds it way towards the window of a post modern office building. Ricochets off back into the water. Finally hits her retina. And then mine. Silence. I see my mom again. And the sun rises again, over Stockholm.

Credits:

Text by Gwyneth.

Poet at Too Young, record label and art project