Sabi Nicholson

northern ireland: a defunct territory, woven into a web of colonialism and capitalism. the soil is contaminated with the memory of conflict and the overspill of industry.

using camcorder, synthesiser, microphone, and my late grandfather’s accordion, i observe the inevitable decay of borders and hunt for ghosts in the half-light. an investigation of traces in the place i was born. how can i tell you what i haven’t been told myself? how can i trace the shape of what is missing? my hands shake when i hold the camcorder. the accordion’s breath and my own become blended.

the product of these observations and recordings is an audiovisual piece, projected onto threadbare cloth. suspended as if floating under a thin beam of salvaged iron by strands of cotton thread. other scavenged objects furnish the space - damaged tables, makeshift benches, construction materials, plant matter - and charcoal dust casts shadows of absent prints. a hazy cyanotype of a broken chain-link fence and a booklet of the terms of the good friday agreement are tucked into a drawer left ajar. smudges, cracks and shadows all exist in a delicate balance with the ghosts conjured by negative space and dancing projector-light.

absence becomes presence in a place out-of-joint.