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Emelie Pamela Röndahl 2015
At the shore of Amygdala (Seeing what I want to see)
I translate stolen threads of thought; a text fragment, an image, a fleeting feeling - they boil down with my past experiences and life-patterns, creating new images and objects. The images grow out in the room into installations.
I weave because I can, because it must be done. My knowledge creates presence and establish relationships; my motivation is recognition as a phenomenon, to capture the observers’ attention with small details from shared memories. My work revolves around the house and the home; interiorly and exteriorly, physically and mentally. Ruins, castles, abandoned houses, homelessness, occupied houses. It is the traces of life and home that interests me in the first place; an eyeless teddy bear, a charred curtain, a broken iron, an unmade bed. Evidence of pain and heartache.
The process begins from evasive dreams, impossible to recreate. Interspersed with memories, nostalgia and sentimentality. There is a link between material and idea, it is memories. I believe that the materiality of textiles inevitably triggers our memory.
I use thread, yarn, fibers. Link body and hair to create a treasure. Technically, I have different approaches - primarily the intertwined messages of hand-weaving.
The loom is my home. But it inhibits me too, and provokes me. Weaving triggers feelings of frustration and anger, I hit harder and tear the threads. Leave the loom but always return.
Time; time is what time is. I’m powerless to the nature of weaving - its nonchalance of time, or more precisely - its own time.
The woven fabric is born out of a dirty body; cut, washed, combed and braided. Handled by hands and eyes.
The amount of fabric in a home, also in the non-home of homelessness, always outweighs other materials. The more often a person moves, the more the proportion of textile increases against other belongings. In this way, textile is also a topic in the subject of survival.
But it’s not all dead serious - I always find charm and humor embedded in my sources of inspiration drawn from sickness, blood and life-long failures.
My eyes are controlled by a series of voluntary and non-voluntary muscles. The fact that I have two eyes gives a depth of perception so that the brain can interpret the differences in the pictures that the different eyes convey, and thereby it becomes easier to judge distance, especially to neighboring objects.
I weave tapestries, rugs, wall-hangings; soft, hairy, tactile and fluffy dust-collectors. Yarns and threads are tied in rows between rows of plain weave, the picture grows slowly from one side to another, as a printout from a printer.
What I first saw shifted forever.