Elizabeth Hatz
Permanence Portico/Table
Cast iron
10 x 8 x 8.4 cm
Winner of the RSA Architecture Prize: £250 for the best work by an architect in the Annual Exhibition. something solid somewhere there is a heavy core - of darkness, like...
Winner of the RSA Architecture Prize: £250 for the best work by an architect in the Annual Exhibition.
something solid
somewhere there is a heavy core - of darkness, like charcoal or iron, the centre of earth, carbon and fire. void. like the coin in the pocket of the man in Borges novel it may be tiny but impossible to pick up. weight is a fundamental property of some architecture, what it shares with earth and stone and dusk. the night is the beginning of the day. only in that weight and darkness can some light begin to take shape, slowly.
between the tiny light and the chunky caressing darkness a room whispers its name.
figura
sometimes simple things appear as divinities. a chair is a throne of iron. a table turns into a triumphal portico. the bed, a vast earth mastaba. the familiar hides the figura of marvel, like Ekelöf’s earthworm, invisible in the deep soils, calm, mute and blind.
the churches of Saintonge that I visited with Peter Märkli had facie with angles of warm earthy stone, and saints and monsters and birds and flowers in a geometry of candid seal and passion of intuition, solid ikons, made to wake the dead into a dream.
no division between building and sculpture, all fused into a coherence of fragments. with order and a balance in suspension, but freed from stale stiffness or rigorous rule.
something solid
somewhere there is a heavy core - of darkness, like charcoal or iron, the centre of earth, carbon and fire. void. like the coin in the pocket of the man in Borges novel it may be tiny but impossible to pick up. weight is a fundamental property of some architecture, what it shares with earth and stone and dusk. the night is the beginning of the day. only in that weight and darkness can some light begin to take shape, slowly.
between the tiny light and the chunky caressing darkness a room whispers its name.
figura
sometimes simple things appear as divinities. a chair is a throne of iron. a table turns into a triumphal portico. the bed, a vast earth mastaba. the familiar hides the figura of marvel, like Ekelöf’s earthworm, invisible in the deep soils, calm, mute and blind.
the churches of Saintonge that I visited with Peter Märkli had facie with angles of warm earthy stone, and saints and monsters and birds and flowers in a geometry of candid seal and passion of intuition, solid ikons, made to wake the dead into a dream.
no division between building and sculpture, all fused into a coherence of fragments. with order and a balance in suspension, but freed from stale stiffness or rigorous rule.
