Six days a week the newspaper appears and six days a week Hein Eberson makes a work based on that paper.
From Gutenberg to Facebook you can draw a more or less straight line. At first only the most important things were printed, today even what we eat is shared with the whole world. We do not only greet things daily, we all are also publicists.
Somewhere in between those realms the newspaper lives, with images that are only significant and important today. Tomorrow they belong to the past and are used to pack our fish & chips. But the images were at one point important enough to print anyway. A newspaper can never be reversed, is irrevocably important for one day.
Prolonging this importance is what Eberson seems to want to do. To extend the images with an echo, in which you may no longer hear what was said, while the sound of their tone remains.
In the illegibility of their original context, the images meet, all equally lost and searching for a new role. Vacationers on an organized trip, condemned to each other.
It is a musing gaze, tearing away what can go to give another image some light. Proportions have disappeared, the images have lost their former grip on reality, their meaning taken hostage. Away from their original spot. A searching gaze the ransom.
You only ever greet what you know. If the images still have something to say then they will have do so to their new neighbours. Set free from their original world, they are forced to negotiate new connections. The cards are dealt, no image is more important than the other.
Hi someone who died, Hi Melania Trump. Hi opinion of Arnon Grunberg, hi hand of the father on the head of his dead son. Hi burning candles, hi cheerful orchestra, hi people who are angry, God knows why.
Echoes of global news in new images that last longer than one day. Small monuments to temporality, is how I would like to describe them.
But I do not have to describe them, because they are hanging in front of me. Hi small monument for temporality, hi day, hi!
Twan Janssen
*Loosely based on a poem by Paul van Ostaijen, (1896 – 1928)
eberson werk work 