Crisis Galore, Wings Petite
tm•galleria
2.7.–26.7.2025
[log entry 6347: retired miner, carpathian mtn range]
Excess… snakes eggs, rosy cheeks, citrusy notes, polished rocks on the mantelpiece, green flame in the hearth, flutes harmonizing, motor oil from the tap, tinted quadruple window panes, succulent solar flares, dead cell dust blowing in the icy tornadoes…Darkness and
Wait
Lets not get ahead of ourselves
As I sip a vintage mother’s milk
Permafrost cloaks the plains
Crows and horses have formed an alliance
Apparent huge mineral gains.
I’m the last one to hop on the rails
Just can’t get used to chugging oil
I used to be a miner,
listening to rocks
But nowadays I live above the sea because the world government doesn’t want to recognise me
I sit in the porch whistling the day away
For decades I’ve been saving for a Coup de grâce
After the latest Helicops bloodlust
Mine’s the last house standing in the cul-de-sac
I was born for burning, my hearts aflame,
with every spark, a new name
My son graduated from flight school
His tongue sore
I’ve updated my memory core in the days of yore
to contain human lore - It’s such a bore
who doesn’t want more?
Iron ore. That’s where it’s at.
Fresh molten goods, anvil and a hammer
Sunshine, little wind - No
Ants may have been the answer
Everybody and their mom knows
There’s a metallic predator who stalks the weak,
it’s a fool’s errand, the infinite peak,
even the Endurance sank to the bottom of the seas,
Poor lighthouse keeper, he lost the keys
The impending doom for thousand years,
final catharsis still not here
For those who fly and those who crawl~
What am I going to wear to the cremator’s ball?
photographed by Anna Niskanen
Excess… snakes eggs, rosy cheeks, citrusy notes, polished rocks on the mantelpiece, green flame in the hearth, flutes harmonizing, motor oil from the tap, tinted quadruple window panes, succulent solar flares, dead cell dust blowing in the icy tornadoes…Darkness and
Wait
Lets not get ahead of ourselves
As I sip a vintage mother’s milk
Permafrost cloaks the plains
Crows and horses have formed an alliance
Apparent huge mineral gains.
I’m the last one to hop on the rails
Just can’t get used to chugging oil
I used to be a miner,
listening to rocks
But nowadays I live above the sea because the world government doesn’t want to recognise me
I sit in the porch whistling the day away
For decades I’ve been saving for a Coup de grâce
After the latest Helicops bloodlust
Mine’s the last house standing in the cul-de-sac
I was born for burning, my hearts aflame,
with every spark, a new name
My son graduated from flight school
His tongue sore
I’ve updated my memory core in the days of yore
to contain human lore - It’s such a bore
who doesn’t want more?
Iron ore. That’s where it’s at.
Fresh molten goods, anvil and a hammer
Sunshine, little wind - No
Ants may have been the answer
Everybody and their mom knows
There’s a metallic predator who stalks the weak,
it’s a fool’s errand, the infinite peak,
even the Endurance sank to the bottom of the seas,
Poor lighthouse keeper, he lost the keys
The impending doom for thousand years,
final catharsis still not here
For those who fly and those who crawl~
What am I going to wear to the cremator’s ball?
photographed by Anna Niskanen
Objects of Scorn
Chicago First Church
25.7.–31.8.2025
[with Kai Trausenegger, Joseph J Greer, Jesse Bond, Frans Nybacka, Alex Both, Chris Viau, Max Svitlo, Salt Salome (Anna Zatsarinna), NI KA and Lawrence M]
How does a child imagine catastrophe—or as Adam Greenfield coins "The Long Emergency"? Whispers and cries of war assert themselves regularly in the games of youth, appearing in their drawings, their inventions: forts built for battle, sticks and swords, rocks and plastic guns. For many young ones, there is little fiction to the conflicts that enter into their play, arms taken up, as so many before, rocks from slingshots hit tanks, child, come of age now. Fandom now dominates the minds of the "adult youth" as an escape from the contemporary moment. The super heroes must save the day, as there aren't many others who seem to have the time. Rather than a picture of 'the girl back home' the modern European warfighter brings with him not an image of his wife, but of his waifu.
The materiality of war has shifted. No longer confined to trenches or frontlines, today's wars are waged through screens, drones, data. Servers are as vulnerable as soldiers. The battlefield now includes satellite feeds, information leaks (on warethunder forums), disinformation campaigns. A child with a tablet may see more real-time footage of conflict than a soldier in the field. The tools of play and the tools of ruin share the same material signature.
Media saturates the senses—war is livestreamed, gamified, retweeted. The spectacle of suffering becomes just another scroll. Against this overwhelming present, fandom emerges as an escape for the adult youth, caught between the harshness of reality and the worlds of fantasy.
Cybersecurity is no longer a specialist concern but a daily condition of life. The borders between the personal and political, between home and battlefield, are transgressed with every data breach, every algorithmic echo. Children grow up not just under the threat of bombs, but under the quiet violence of surveillance, censorship, and digital manipulation.
Imagination knows no bounds. And for young people living in, around, and bearing witness to war-both physical and virtual—it is no different. They inherit a world where catastrophe is ambient, emergencies are chronic, and play is not innocent, but rehearsed.
How does a child imagine catastrophe—or as Adam Greenfield coins "The Long Emergency"? Whispers and cries of war assert themselves regularly in the games of youth, appearing in their drawings, their inventions: forts built for battle, sticks and swords, rocks and plastic guns. For many young ones, there is little fiction to the conflicts that enter into their play, arms taken up, as so many before, rocks from slingshots hit tanks, child, come of age now. Fandom now dominates the minds of the "adult youth" as an escape from the contemporary moment. The super heroes must save the day, as there aren't many others who seem to have the time. Rather than a picture of 'the girl back home' the modern European warfighter brings with him not an image of his wife, but of his waifu.
The materiality of war has shifted. No longer confined to trenches or frontlines, today's wars are waged through screens, drones, data. Servers are as vulnerable as soldiers. The battlefield now includes satellite feeds, information leaks (on warethunder forums), disinformation campaigns. A child with a tablet may see more real-time footage of conflict than a soldier in the field. The tools of play and the tools of ruin share the same material signature.
Media saturates the senses—war is livestreamed, gamified, retweeted. The spectacle of suffering becomes just another scroll. Against this overwhelming present, fandom emerges as an escape for the adult youth, caught between the harshness of reality and the worlds of fantasy.
Cybersecurity is no longer a specialist concern but a daily condition of life. The borders between the personal and political, between home and battlefield, are transgressed with every data breach, every algorithmic echo. Children grow up not just under the threat of bombs, but under the quiet violence of surveillance, censorship, and digital manipulation.
Imagination knows no bounds. And for young people living in, around, and bearing witness to war-both physical and virtual—it is no different. They inherit a world where catastrophe is ambient, emergencies are chronic, and play is not innocent, but rehearsed.
Blue Steel
Vallilan Panimon Galleria
4.7.–30.7.2025
[log entry 6589: retired wrestler, bloomington, indiana]
Cold as ice, glove of old
moisturized thoroughly, emits no light
In bullet hell, Cowbell fanfare
a peasants pleasure
To shovel gravel
I command metal in any weather
Like lightning strike, like ice cold ice
My eyes turn white, I’m a motorcycle
Who goes there?
Hoagy Carmichael
Small wheels on my coffin
Fight me
Cold as ice, glove of old
moisturized thoroughly, emits no light
In bullet hell, Cowbell fanfare
a peasants pleasure
To shovel gravel
I command metal in any weather
Like lightning strike, like ice cold ice
My eyes turn white, I’m a motorcycle
Who goes there?
Hoagy Carmichael
Small wheels on my coffin
Fight me
CONK
Pitted Dates
7.9.–20.10.2024
all creatures are born
through deep air or deep water
not knowing how to grow
or be seen
the shallowness of the membrane
separates matter from its context
a bud mimics the ecstasy of sun
to return its favour
resemblances are sympathetic:
the flowering body of a fungus, on trees
is delightfully called
a conk*
the future, cradling a fresh there-ness
nourishes the eyes with a pearly field of nothing
a drop, waiting
for a lizard to slink away
promising its tail to somebody who noticed it
the split second that decided its fate
a dewdrop so heavy you know it’s the sky embodied
a berry becomes the body of its blossom
“you ate!” says the comment
to the late summer’s field
a paganistic prayer sounds over the landscape
Care
Orbits
the Never
Known
what you answer is:
i know this planet from somewhere
*meaning, in some vernacular, an ear
Curation: Sakari Tervo.
Artists: Alma Heikkilä, Frans Nybacka, Sebastian Reis, Eetu Sihvonen, Sari Soininen, Julia Toarie Strandman.
Commissioned poem: Milka Luhtaniemi.
Photography: Sakari Tervo
through deep air or deep water
not knowing how to grow
or be seen
the shallowness of the membrane
separates matter from its context
a bud mimics the ecstasy of sun
to return its favour
resemblances are sympathetic:
the flowering body of a fungus, on trees
is delightfully called
a conk*
the future, cradling a fresh there-ness
nourishes the eyes with a pearly field of nothing
a drop, waiting
for a lizard to slink away
promising its tail to somebody who noticed it
the split second that decided its fate
a dewdrop so heavy you know it’s the sky embodied
a berry becomes the body of its blossom
“you ate!” says the comment
to the late summer’s field
a paganistic prayer sounds over the landscape
Care
Orbits
the Never
Known
what you answer is:
i know this planet from somewhere
*meaning, in some vernacular, an ear
Curation: Sakari Tervo.
Artists: Alma Heikkilä, Frans Nybacka, Sebastian Reis, Eetu Sihvonen, Sari Soininen, Julia Toarie Strandman.
Commissioned poem: Milka Luhtaniemi.
Photography: Sakari Tervo