If Agnes Hamvas’ work were a house, then art, fashion, and philosophy would each be a separate room in this house.
These rooms would be next to one another or connected through corridors and hallways, they would or would not communicate with each other, they would or would not host the samkind of people and activities.
They might be the start or the endpoint of a maze. One could think of words as transparent and mysterious cloths, piled one on top of the other to hide away an empty centre, where one was expecting a word, precisely.
Desire and thought might come together wrapped up in a white word, the ‘Yes’ of mimicked love, and in this ceremony they might walk down the corridors of eternity, never questioning their intentions.
Philosophical concepts of time might step in at any point, imposing rhythm and meaning. Then, it is never a question of fashion – costumes are far away, in the realm of theatre, and Hamvas is left in her simple attire, counting seconds echoed by Astrid Sodomka’s unfolding gestures.
The ability to split oneself to lead the discrete life, whether backstage or as part of performances set behind glass windows,has lead to a practice of collage of cuttings rhythms
displacements which are always considered in advance.
So that when spontaneity bursts in, after years of playing with set-up chance, can she look us in the eye?
Or is it all about putting on the correct mask, that which will tear you apart, yet never let you know the reason behind this?
Cristina Bogdan 2015