Instagram: nichtherrjuergens

Franziska Judith Jürgens

by Carolina Graeff-Martinez

Franzi’s work screams and your tinnitus rings with the sound of fuck the nation, fuck the capital and fuck the state.

Franzi’s work is the resurrection of the author, a reversal of the death of the author. 

Franzi’s work grabs you by the eyelids, softly, puts matches between them in order to keep them open and demands you to observe – observe her, but actually to observe yourself.

It is a certain feeling of anxiety, a noose that slowly tightens around your chest, but you are the one doing the tightening. What is it that stirs you up, what is it that slaps you in the face? Do you feel betrayed because the promise of tranquility was not fulfilled? Because what calls itself a meditation is in truth a mosh pit? Covered by layers of fabric you cannot shake the thought that the embroidery needle will slowly pierces your cocoon, without any kind of forewarning.

Franzi’s work implies an imperative, the prohibition of taking in a fresh breath when the last one will not last you much longer.

You perceive your swallowing as something perverse and this awareness of your own saliva that wets your throat – gula in latin – could be translated into gluttony.

Bacchanal, binge drinking, orgy.

To engage with Franzi’s art is to allow yourself to be overwhelmed, in a radical way, your inherent feeling of trust being grabbed by the root – and ripped out.

Her art cannot be condensed into enumerations, into flat sequences of topics or contents. Franzi’s work is a multi-layered feeling, formed in its own language, deeply anchored in intertextuality and sits hooded beside the gravesite of Valerie Solanas.

Franzi’s art is a pair of brass knuckles.