At the surface level of the sun it is impossible to look around, but you won’t have to. The senses just bubble up into new combinations suited to this atmosphere, heartbeat almost a precursor to all that is here, orbits the central heatwave. On your way here, you reverse engineered yourself back to star matter — took your jacket off backwards in time (we can hang it here) and dropped your act (you may blow it up again later anyways). For now, little is necessary to seep into that beat that bursts life every which way — all is born out of a condition of smallness, of nuclei, due to this. Far, far behind us preparations of a lifetime of personhood dissolves as the core of the matter approaches undeniably. Dreams flicker last, whispered like a cheat at a biology test, offering us codes we won’t know how to take. Lulled by the lava-like curvature, nearly swallowed by a grand finale just to start again, we are getting further infused in a geometry we are trying to map out. You and I form an alliance by this light stream, the only life forms we’ve ever known on the sun itself, protruding at each assumption we could grab a hold of. While I cannot look at your eyes to confirm, colors seep through the eyelids.

We are the mechanisms for that show-off of light. Gossiping about the impossible (all that we are but can’t contain in a wardrobe), yet entrusting the duty of a new sundial to each item that orbits our circumference. Leaving crumps of eye-candy to lock pick with just for its dynamic sequence, for the love of life inhabiting details, the only package truth comes in. Everything is sited and recited by formulaic habits around the centrifuge of what we have picked up on our previous trip. The impossible centrality we all possess (and when I talk to you I hear you from in there.) ”A big twist in the span of a few years increases spine mobility”, you say and hit the hi-hats. There are a few definitives left to scrabble like a ring of puzzles enacting a bouquet. I am beginning to realize I have already deciphered something. Like I don’t need most of my explanations, either.

If you know which doors they open, all accessories have a function, biologists will know this. All blank space can be celestial distance depending on your dimensions. With their works, Eeva and Jonas show us artifacts from generative equations ranging from the personal to the fundamental, stretched into a momentary permanence on display. Like a button that sparks programmed associations when pressed, these iterations of life whether cosmic, organic or crafted and collected, serve us hints of their respective spheres. Shaped by each viewer’s orientation in the midst of narratives, perhaps re-programmed by their interests. Here, the speed limit for travel from one object to another is akin to our neural synapses’ firing. The distance is of a kind of software spirit, that projects a plethora of decor as its hardware. That’s what we are all dressed up in. Form is forged out of our rumination on what we’ve singled out as our distinguished taste. Picked out from the pool of main-stream—the grand scheme. Distillation is casual as it is necessary, as the ozone layer filters the ultraviolet light we filter the subsidiary lights, flashing off of the seams.

— Cemre Eraslan