In Episode 104 of Subway Takes, comedian Stef Dag coined the concept of the Candid Girlfriend™ (she said to trademark that). In a heated debate that unfolded around her take on TikTok, people dissected and ran their mouths. They analyzed the male gaze imposed on a type of woman “with babybangs” that is easily turned into a muse, an empty screen of projection that “loves pomegranates” and looks perfect for analog portraits in “#35mm”.
The candid is unconscious. It’s not staged. It’s being unaware. Natural. Well, or maybe, candid is pretended purity. The candid might just be a mask put on fully conscious of observation while acting undeterred. There is no more randomness the moment you choose to freeze it in a frame. Or a phrase.
Sarah Kürten came of age when hushed glances gradually hardened into constant observation. Fleeting memories became permanent records. Imagination turned into data in a free upgradable storage plan. Being a woman means performing. And her forthcoming artist book against a shadowy treeline offers a glimpse into this performance through poems from the last two years told from a first person singular POV.
When studying literature, the first thing you learn is to never confuse the poet with the poem’s voice. Quite a challenge when words are overlaid with self-portraits. The mind of a 2020s emojis-and-iPhone-using person puts a 1960s analog lens on life around her.
person /ˈpɜːsn/, noun, english: a human as an individual, from Latin persona ‘actor’s mask, character in a play’, later ‘human being’.
Creative blocks, loneliness in company, compulsive self-comparisons, and constant self-diagnoses are narrated so personally and yet so relatably. Sarah chooses surreal words the weight of which is physical.
Isn’t the analogy of an amateurishly oversized insect oddly kafkaesque? A plane crashing into a breakfast bowl brought 9 / 11 to my mind and the back and forth of bitter and sweet in the poetry of Etel Adnan. When Sarah claimed that tulips were flowers on life support reminding her of women, I had to stop and just sit for a while. When she mentioned sweaty palms, I couldn’t help myself but mumble mom’s spaghetti under my breath. Sometimes, I am tired of making sense of personal moments through foreign snippets and samples. Depth lies in between well chosen words. But OUTKAST already said it, Y’all don’t wanna hear me you just wanna dance.
Sarah Kürten’s artist book against a shadowy treeline is to be published in summer 2024 in 100 copies via innumbers publishing.
In Episode 104 of Subway Takes, comedian Stef Dag coined the concept of the Candid Girlfriend™ (she said to trademark that). In a heated debate that unfolded around her take on TikTok, people dissected and ran their mouths. They analyzed the male gaze imposed on a type of woman “with babybangs” that is easily turned into a muse, an empty screen of projection that “loves pomegranates” and looks perfect for analog portraits in “#35mm”.
The candid is unconscious. It’s not staged. It’s being unaware. Natural. Well, or maybe, candid is pretended purity. The candid might just be a mask put on fully conscious of observation while acting undeterred. There is no more randomness the moment you choose to freeze it in a frame. Or a phrase.
Sarah Kürten came of age when hushed glances gradually hardened into constant observation. Fleeting memories became permanent records. Imagination turned into data in a free upgradable storage plan. Being a woman means performing. And her forthcoming artist book against a shadowy treeline offers a glimpse into this performance through poems from the last two years told from a first person singular POV.
When studying literature, the first thing you learn is to never confuse the poet with the poem’s voice. Quite a challenge when words are overlaid with self-portraits. The mind of a 2020s emojis-and-iPhone-using person puts a 1960s analog lens on life around her.
person /ˈpɜːsn/, noun, english: a human as an individual, from Latin persona ‘actor’s mask, character in a play’, later ‘human being’.
Creative blocks, loneliness in company, compulsive self-comparisons, and constant self-diagnoses are narrated so personally and yet so relatably. Sarah chooses surreal words the weight of which is physical.
Isn’t the analogy of an amateurishly oversized insect oddly kafkaesque? A plane crashing into a breakfast bowl brought 9 / 11 to my mind and the back and forth of bitter and sweet in the poetry of Etel Adnan. When Sarah claimed that tulips were flowers on life support reminding her of women, I had to stop and just sit for a while. When she mentioned sweaty palms, I couldn’t help myself but mumble mom’s spaghetti under my breath. Sometimes, I am tired of making sense of personal moments through foreign snippets and samples. Depth lies in between well chosen words. But OUTKAST already said it, Y’all don’t wanna hear me you just wanna dance.
Sarah Kürten’s artist book against a shadowy treeline is to be published in summer 2024 in 100 copies via innumbers publishing.
Jennifer Braun
The Gen Z Art Critic