The possible occurrence of a typo or mistake, work with cartoons and written text, a lack of concentration as the cause of the inability to bring things to an end, as a flipside of permanent creative activities and hunger for new stimuli. Jana Kalinová's exhibition reflects the conditions of its origin. It analyses the network of thoughts and associations within which the artist moved in the course of its preparation. It is a movement similar to a tidying-up that is never finished but is all the more entertaining for that. Things, ideas and stories are regrouped and handled, shifted to other places where they remain for a while, due to sheer excitement over a different subject. Behold! A view from the window, a vision of the prophet Ezekiel, the Karlín suburb, rabbit's soft paws and a story written in 99 stylistic and language modifications. What eventually will and will not be crucial for the exhibition remains temporarily hidden.
Jana Písaříková
Before killing a rabbit, my father would always give it a stroke. He would take the rabbit in his lap and was nice to it for a while, in order to calm it down, to calm himself down because he "had to do this, what would one otherwise keep them for". Rabbits were chiefly kept for meat, exceptionally for fur (in which case for both). The best ones were for breeding. I remember one that was allowed to die of old age (come on, Jana, it's people that die, don't they, animals just peg out, get this into your head). The rabbit appeared to be filling the whole cage with its body, it was enormous, a venerable father, the king of all our rabbits in cream sauce. There was also a female rabbit (we didn't call them does then) that had such soft and thick fur that we called her Little Glove. We looked forward to her having babies, imagining that their fur would be as beautiful as hers and planning that after she reproduced several times we would kill her and make a glove of her fur. But she must have suspected this because she bit off the head of every baby rabbit from every litter she had, or at least dragged them all over the cage and stamped them to death. We were seriously upset. How on earth could she be such a bitch? Father always made sure she got the very best, she had everything she needed and thus no reason to rebel, there was the best food in her bowl and the best straw in her cage. I don't know, maybe she didn't like how big the cage was, or how open. After the last massacre when it finally came home to us that there would be no other little gloves, my father said that he could no longer put up with this murdering, and killed her instead. We ate the meat and sold the fur. After all, there's no point in having just one glove, is there?
Jana Kalinová
