sitting on the wooden chair, looking at the horse, in the keeper's position. night vision in a fraction of the winter night. task given to me by them and until next year my rest is here, like a groom, breaking the branches and facing the horse

Result #1

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Result #2

sitting on the wooden chair, looking at the horse, in the keeper's position. night vision in a fraction of the winter night. task given to me by them and until next year my rest is here, like a groom, breaking the branches and facing the horse in the light of the twilight. Moving forward, into a kind of animal realm, I turn to the canvas of a little skull, half-displayed, half-sleeping, the yawning eye of a hungry and awake eye. When I feel my way and inspect the textured surface, I realize that my gaze is the same one with the skull's. But that doesn't make the works that sit on the back wall in the gallery any less mind-bending. Sixty-six more sun-bleached paintings (each called Bone Bone), ones in a more-or-less black frames and one a stone, sit in their own stark, rectangular wooden frame that looks like a skeleton. Painted a bright red and scaled at the right angle to the wall (as if to emphasize the fact that it is a walk-in rather than an extension of the work itself), the paintings are eerily lifelike, or at least vaguely crawlish, as though they might need some light and muscle to endure. They are beautiful to look at, if you know what to look at.The fact that the word to the show came from two of the most important figures in Picassos development, Pablo Picasso and his father, Félix Maragall. Maragall was the very first modernist to begin as a painter. Even after he moved on to sculpture, she was a key pioneer of modernism. Picasso, by contrast, had no idea of modernism as such, but she was an icon of a kind of labor that she had been trained to teach the eye and touch to. In the very early years of his career, Picasso showed himself to be a great draftsman, and his paintings—such as the pieces that were exhibited here—are full of hermetic and mysterious structures and gestures.

Result #3

sitting on the wooden chair, looking at the horse, in the keeper's position. night vision in a fraction of the winter night. task given to me by them and until next year my rest is here, like a groom, breaking the branches and facing the horse, not the other way round. In the meantime I had set up a trestle table with two vases of flowers, and a table with some bread-pulp-like objects on it. This was all made of stone, wood, and mud, so that it looked a bit like the sand in the kitchen. In the morning, I decided to sit in the sunshine and watch a film on the screen. I thought of Wes Poes film, as well as of Ursula Andress paintings and collages. Some young man is making a film on the beach at night. You see a girl making her way up a wall to where she has to go, and you can see her walking across the green of a set of stairs to go down. You couldnt see her in the street; it wouldnt be interesting. And then you see the guy in the thick rubber of a jeep; hes been through a lot and still has a shotgun. You couldnt see him. What are you supposed to do? Go back in the jeep? Who knows? It was the best film I could find. Theres no point in making a movie in a green room.After that, I felt lost for a while. I thought of all the friends of the Fold. And the films began to take shape. A few of them were interrupted by the fire, and those who had stayed to see the film started to leave. The threesome, a young man and a man on a bicycle, got into a car and headed for the nearest town. For about five minutes they pass each other on the way, and this time it was all just a matter of good luck. The other two agreed to meet at the other end of town. When they came together, the other man was the one who had to talk. He said he had been sleeping in the back of a pickup, and the woman had brought a few sticks of dynamite and a pipe.

Result #4

sitting on the wooden chair, looking at the horse, in the keeper's position. night vision in a fraction of the winter night. task given to me by them and until next year my rest is here, like a groom, breaking the branches and facing the horse. Here the effect was kind of weirdly intimate, with a strong sense of intimacy, even if the usual boy-hungover isnt one to be taken in. From outside I would have thought it weird and ungenerous. Looking in, the impression was of a poorly made (or badly set up) mirror. I wasnt sure whether to get the ironic point or to get the obvious one. After a while, though, the effect turned out to be that of observation and observation applied to the reflections of a point of view.A pair of other works suggested that Hedmann is interested in another sort of observational observer. In the back room of the gallery, from the time that the clock shows 10:55 until the gate opens, there were a lot of leather bags full of old newspapers. And behind the door was a large picture of Hedman standing alone, looking out of the mirror. In the front room, with the door closed, it was clear that Hedman had stepped into the mirror. That made the reflection visible, but not visible until after you stepped into the room, as though it were a big step. This is all very much down from Hedman's earlier black and white images, but a change of pace, a new shift of attention, maybe.What is fascinating about Hedman's work is the idea of self-observation as something that we cannot always be able to do. It is a sort of questioning, of knowing what to expect. He uses the work of a mirror as a kind of response to ourselves. But does it mean that if you look at yourself in a mirror you will become as observant as the other person? Not necessarily. I think Hedman's work is in a sense self-observatory, a sort of counter-observatory. And I wonder whether that is the same as being observant by others.

Result #5

sitting on the wooden chair, looking at the horse, in the keeper's position. night vision in a fraction of the winter night. task given to me by them and until next year my rest is here, like a groom, breaking the branches and facing the horse, hunting and handling the deer. After this warm and napping before the horse, the deer stumbled on the canvas. As if in a dream, a large print of the deer was to be found and the painting was to be replaced, and one could see the man's neck, stripped of every skin, the very sight of the real deer. The painting to be changed. The man stretched his arm across the chair to cut the leaf from the deer's neck. Then, as if to acknowledge the miracle of the deed, he stood on the chair and traced a row of circles on the ground, a mural of circles made from the leaves of the deer's neck. The deer lay still, eyes in the moonlight. The man's arm was out of the picture, and his hand was pressed to the bird's neck, his left hand blowing a mist of an indistinct light. Then he discovered that the circles and traces were still on the canvas. The artist had removed his hand from the deer's neck. He would be a fool without the deer and the canvas and the work was done. The man painted circles and trails that already covered the walls and drawings of the man. When he returned to the tree one-and-a-half months later, the canvases had already turned into a pale oval. When he visited the tree a couple of weeks later, it was already past his three-year old mama's birthday. The artist had to do something to the tree's leaves, and he did. They were still there. The tree was to be displayed in the house in November. The image of the virgin's eyes on the canvas was to be exhibited in the year 2000. The most perfect painting is not the one painted by a artist, it is the one that makes one aware of the fact that it is always unfinished and never completed, that it will never be complete.