Stian Ådlandsvik is an artist with an archaeological bent. Drawings, photographs and sculptures variously materialise from historical and contemporary events and objects that he has evaluated and re-contextualised. Reflections of the past intertwine with ideals and visions of the future. His works are often reorganised hybrids, in which the constituent parts derive from precise origins and connections he has explored and dissected, discernable through the unveiling of a certain logic or thought process.
- – -
The cylinders contain copper rod and an acidic solution, functioning as batteries; wires connect them to one another, thus generating enough energy to run a thermometer that registers the temperature of the space, which is displayed on a small digital element atop one of the cylinders.
The process involved in assuring product functionality is to certify and document all mechanical parts. In this sculpture, that idea has been turned upside down. Consisting of the remains of a photocopier – the result of a transformation whereby the panels and components were taken apart piece-by-piece and then photocopied on the machine, the procedure continued until the machine could no longer make copies. In this way, the machine documented its own decay, while at the same time exposing its own components.
A filing cabinet is welded at the seams to render it airtight; through the influence of an air compressor, it expands into a plump, uneven shape. Although the intervening action has terminated, the evidence remains.
A showcase contains a bent metal bolt and a similarly bent and cracked casing. The rough surface tells us that these items are not industrially made: they are three-dimensional printed copies of two aircraft components which were the direct cause of a plane crash, precisely because they were copies. The aircraft industry has a serious problem in that replacement parts and their certificates can be well camouflaged fakes that are almost impossible to discover. Substandard parts are used in good faith with catastrophic consequences, while those that produce them cheaply earn a good profit. The destruction of the aircraft gave these parts their unique form and turned them into individual originals. In order to copy them, digital, 3D models were made, based on photographs.
A standard 1m x 2m aluminium plate has been crumpled into a modernistic cloud shape. Before straightening it out again and rolling it flat, its shape was documented. After this, the plate was crumpled into a new shape and the process repeated. After 5 times, the plate had acquired several holes and massive signs of material wear. Subsequently, the flattened plate was made into another work called Hell is Chrome, seen immediately here below.
A standard 1m x 2m aluminium plate has been crumpled into a modernistic cloud shape, rolled flat, and the process repeated. After 5 times, the plate had acquired several holes and massive signs of material wear. It was then cut into 8 pieces and, in an attempt to cover up some of the traces of damage while also giving the aluminium a new surface, the 8 pieces were chrome-finished.
An airport baggage trolley, where small parts have been cut out at random locations, eventually turning it into a collapsed, unusable object. From the small parts that had been cutout, a 20 kroner coin was cast, in order to pay for the trolley.
A copy of an airport information sign in which the essential information, and as both a consequence and the reason for its existence, has been taken out: the screens that are supposed to indicate when the various airplanes are to depart or arrive. The only remnants are the electrical cords left inside the structure.
A wooden cable reel was collected from a construction site, dismantled, and pieces cutout as necessary to remake the Malevich illustration called ‘Suprematist composition expressing the feeling of wireless telegraphy’. The pieces were carefully composed on a 6 metre high wall, and then photographed. The pieces were then reassembled into their original form, thus marking this particular cable reel with the traces of an escapade in art.
Otto Lilienthal, a pioneer of the development of gliders in the second half of the 19th century once said: “To invent an airplane is nothing. To build one is something. But to fly one is everything.” This statement sums up man’s age-old, eternal desire to be a master of the skies, and our desire today to undertake increasingly long and luxurious journeys in aircraft of ever increasing dimensions.
Otto Lilienthal’s simple and poetic dream of being able to glide alone over the countryside is captured in a skeleton of his glider’s wing construction, made of steel from a security fence erected to keep ordinary, inquisitive people out of his high tech production plant.
After having been used for cutting-up a steel fence to make another artwork, the angle grinder was used to cut open a showcase; thereafter the machine was dismantled, with the various parts tidily organised and displayed in that very showcase.
In Beijing, leftover fabrics from the many construction sites in the city were collected, to thereby make traditional Chinese lanterns of them; a hybrid crafted from the remains of the rapidly changing society, reflects upon the new expressions the Chinese might find in its melting pot.
A 1979 model Volvo 244DL from which all external lights have been removed and their cables lengthened. The lights were then gathered together to form one big luminaire that lights the car from the outside when the engine is running.
A part of the façade of an old Norwegian mountain shed has been removed and the panels used to create a new, fictional, standard Euro pallet.