Exhibition Opening: 28th of February 5 – 9 pm

Rebecca Harper

The scenery unfolds slowly in the images of Rebecca Harper, slowly and hermetically, everything unfolds on a kind of stage before the viewer. The spaces, the figures, the water—everything has its place, but nothing remains isolated, everything revolves like a celestial body around the center. The center of all depictions is a strong blonde woman. She sits, time and again, in different moments, on the edge of a tub, on the edge of a bed, on a soft couch, alone, in her world. She holds a seal, which seems, as if like all other objects, to be its own instance of the woman. One hand on the fur, a fin on her lap, the symbiosis of both familiar yet in their childlike-feminine duo, not a mother-child relationship, but a child-and-woman concept.

The spaces tell stories, but not loudly, not demandingly. Objects, items are listed: pictures, reflections, open windows. Water runs through everything, dark rivers, filled tubs, painted seascapes. Not water that swallows or pulls—water that carries, that reminds, that is in motion. The mirrors show not only the woman but also the space around her, they open perspectives, make things visible that would otherwise be overlooked.

And everywhere there are signs, small things that remain: the locked hatbox with the red bird, as if it preserves something that cannot be lost or that is better kept in the box, knowingly safeguarded. The books, no one reads, but they are there, as possible narratives. The maps on the walls, the compasses, the sailboats—the child-woman schema points a direction, carrying the subject naturally in the right direction as if by the wind.

The titles sound at first like lines from a poem, not just descriptions, but thoughts that still resonate. Blinking through Salt Lashes—a moment when seeing becomes harder, blinking through tears or seawater, as if the world is veiled for a moment. Then Disappear like a Snatched Breath on an Angry Tide, as if something is torn away, a breath that cannot be held, a body that dissolves, not from weakness, but because the current wills it.

Other titles are almost narrative, long, as if they do not merely name but set a rhythm. Thick Skinned – Quick Finned, Always Turning Tides Tale speaks of adaptation, of a skin that protects, of mobility, of fins that never stand still, a body that always turns with the current. Secret Eyes, Holding Mourning of the Darkest River is a promise, a gaze that sees more, that preserves something, a mourning that does not become loud but continues to flow, in a river that knows no rest.

The body is central, present, firm, but never rigid. It sits, holds, supports itself, moves in small excerpts from longer actions, in pauses, a looking up, a crouching. The posture is open, but not exhibited, controlled, but not rigid. Clothing emphasizes or dissolves, laces are missing, fabrics hang down, as if the boundary between body and environment becomes permeable. Water is close, in bathtubs, in currents, in paintings, an element that connects with the figure but does not absorb her.

The absence of men is a gap, a palpable void that runs through the spaces, through the woman‘s postures, through the objects that gather around her. She sits, she holds, she moves, but there is no counterpart. No male body, no hand that grasps or withdraws, no figure that shows in the mirrors. The void is not just an absence, it is structural, it defines the spaces because it is not filled—except by an implication: a shadow.

Instead, there are fish. They are the only trace, the only translation of an absent male principle. They lie on tables, swim in tubs, are painted on tiles—motionless or in endless circular movement, not acting, not speaking. The fish, a classic phallic symbol, appears, but it remains an object, without function, without a body, the relic of an opposite that no longer enacts in this world.

The birds are not mere decorations, not gentle companions of light. They appear, hovering, plunging, circling, as a black figure on the mantelpiece, as a gull that nearly touches the ground. They follow no clear pattern, they do not fit into the symbolism of the other animals. The seal lies, the fish are silent, but the birds fly, sometimes too close, sometimes like a warning, sometimes as an echo of something that announces itself without becoming tangible. Their black sets them apart from the surroundings, as if they are not part of the woman‘s world, but something that intrudes from outside, a foreign body in the space of her reflections and water surfaces. They exist beyond the waves, beyond the tubs, outside the current, as something that cannot be classified. Perhaps they are what cannot be held, what eludes, while the woman remains.

The box remains closed because it does not need to be opened. It stands there, always in the same place, with the red bird on the lid, as a sign, as a possibility, as a container for something that does not demand an outbreak. The birds outside the box are wild, uncontrolled, a force that cannot be held. But this bird remains bound to the surface, frozen, held, preserved or enchanted. Perhaps the box is a sealed threat, a force that cannot compete, that has no place in the dynamics of holding and being held. Perhaps that is why it remains untouched. Because its contents are too powerful. Because what lies hidden within cannot be permitted.