The brutish compulsions and unforced vices of daily life pour us like hot clay into forms. We move and solidify into shapes, and twist into shadows. Never quite as solid as stones, but at risk of freezing in our steps. The poison of implacable cell death leeches us from our first breaths, but provides a bargain — there is glory to be found in those breaths, if we can only find it before it is too late.
All of this doom, and all of this potential for exultation… art has ever sought to capture the experience. Probably, the intensity of our creeping and bounding on the edge of the precipice can’t really be captured by art, but Dødsengel come very close. Perilously close. Continue reading »










