Mette Sterre

It’s impossible to separate the abundant output of Mette Sterre’s residency from her nimble intellect. Hundreds of ceramic objects materialised like so many ideas, apparently unconnected until you allow yourself to see the constellations she’s creating. There’s a body there, stripped of skin, the bones and organs reorganised and yet very much alive. Cells and strands of DNA are communicating, energy is circulating freely. It’s a landscape, an ever-changing scenery with alien creatures, flowering glazes and reflective rocks. Brittle paper porcelain mountains converse with distant worlds caught in bowls like valleys or inverted domes. Originally imagined as a machine animated by a cam disc mechanism, the numerous parts are beautiful in themselves, pregnant with forms and functions they may or may not fulfil or arrested in a fascinating state of decay, diseased, infected with feverish imagination. Strange to think of this universe in crates, waiting for Sterre to release it.