Hidden in the Northern grounds of Poland, the region known for its humid and salty air; amongst Scorpion Grass, Nettles and Lilies of the Valley, we are gently hosting the first edition of Garden Cult Triennale. The post-rain, moist soil releases petrichor, its characteristic earthy scent.
We press our fingers deep into the ground to catch the moving roots of the big Lilac standing in the center of the garden. The wet grass whips ankles heavily, leaving bruises on the skin, nettle rush is spreading thru our bodies as the warm feeling reaches the neck. We can clearly hear Burgundy snails slowly scraping up new holes in the leaves of the eighty year old apple trees standing behind us. Droplets of dew and sweat on the upper lip are our only nourishment these days. The garden is inhabited by representations of creatures, animal-like beings that peer at us from between the blades of grass. Their eyes, size and textures of their bodies vary; some of them resemble reptiles, others spread like fungal networks. They surround us as we slowly kneel down on their territory. Shiny and slick surfaces of the bones hidden in the shadows make us feel weak, our limbs suddenly go numb. We silently slip on the ground, calmly and peacefully, being caught by the thick layer of wild strawberries. It is known for both – us and them, that we will never leave the hortus conclusus. Seeds hidden under our fingernails start to put down roots and the colourful slimy glazing starts covering our chests. As we change our shells the creatures look at us kindly.
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