Sherbet Green, London (2024)

The World Forgetting, by the World Forgot

Solo Exhibition

Venue: Sherbert Green, London

Dates: 26 January - 16 March 2024

The World Forgetting, by the World Forgot is the first UK solo exhibition from multidisciplinary artist Li Li Ren (b. 1986), comprising an installation and collaborative sound piece with Jasper Sdougos, encircled by and containing new sculptures and textiles. The artist uses tactile aterials, ranging from the soft to the hard and heavy, to create intimate narratives in space. She is interested in the psychological effects of human scale and bodily forms, unfolding personal narratives that evoke emotions and feelings. The seemingly absurd and dreamlike forms of her sculptures provide a mode of escapism, transporting viewers to a place where the real and imagined merge, their separation becoming insignificant.

“Here, there are ghosts, and we will remember them. I’ll cry ten times over before the day is done, huddled round, listening to you.”

- Mazzy-Mae Green, Sherbet Green

Bathing, compact whooshes, ripples of water when I move, watching the steam take shape, small bubbled clouds dispersing sweat and toxins and stress. Then there is earth cracking, crevices releasing lovers, demons, ageless, aged and barely born. In that vast expanse between our souls, bodies crawl endlessly to reach junctions west of here, where suns set. Here, there are ghosts, and we will remember them. I’ll cry ten times over before the day is done, huddled round, listening to you. You say my universe holds no bounds, intertwining with yours, tickling its way along your skin. We are parched, cotton wool tongue touching roof of mouth. It is so strange the way my heart feels heavy when thinking about the centuries of us, standing, laughing, dying, our spirits moving in weighted mountain boots across urban deserts. And every time David Attenborough motions, a new behaviour is born, wheeled out; a reminder of the world forgetting, by the world forgot, blanched and bleached and ashen, snapshot and amplified.

Why do we write, mythologise and tell lies? In this sandy field, campfire ablaze, gazes locked in understanding. In this garden I have cultivated, I will remember your brown eyes as they drift across, a scavenger hungry for its next meal, in a wasteland that cannot possibly exist. To wait out the night is to wait for birds to sing, for the dogs to take a bow. Tomorrow, we will continue to look for them, for new clues of butterflies that last longer than a day; shadows that may linger to tell us things that only they could. How is it that our purified, toned forms still decay like snowflakes? Putrid mud. A child asks, moving inside my stomach, growing. Moulding itself from the cartilage of stories told around flames and on screens; half-truths catching naive actualities, themselves made up by time. Here, there are ghosts. Cicadas in praise of short bursts of light, of life, after seventeen years buried under the soil, nymphs attached to tree trunks. We have so much time and none at all and all we really do is dance and die. The steam is gone now.