𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘫𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘢̊𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘱𝘱, 
𝘴𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘢̊𝘳 𝘫𝘢𝘨 𝘶𝘱𝘱 
𝘰𝘤𝘩 𝘫𝘢𝘨 𝘨𝘢̊𝘳 
𝘰𝘤𝘩 𝘫𝘢𝘨 𝘨𝘢̊𝘳 
Agnes Mohlin 
28. June — 7. August 2024

Indentations

There are indentations in the footpath
as if a series of small musical notes have stepped into the asphalt. 

An incantation of sighing footfalls that has softened the asphalt 
into miniature urban rock pools
that pocket last night’s rain. 

A clean rain vainly trying to rinse the city from the winter’s sand dust
coating and stifling the tired bodies that wade through it long into spring. 

Further on, old flights of steps have worn, dawning into slow smiles. Long years of rush hours have curved their lips, smoothed down the stone with their comings and goings. 

Is it this step on this step 
broadening the smile, making the indentation deeper, wider, softer, is it my impression?

At home our bathtub has smooth rounded corners, with small angular feet
That lifts it off the tiles
And cups me 

Underwater my fingers run across striations of stretch marks
(Ridged, like filled in potholes)
and across the impressions made by the seams of tights, undies, bra, on soft skin. a daytime infrastructure that reminds of a vertical upright existence. 
Lying down, they are soft desire paths 
between breasts and legs
With bathwater pooling in my navel, I feel a wornness

Further on, the soles of my feet are shrivelled and puckered. Curling my toes causes the ridges of skin to touch, like corrugated cardboard, like velcro, 
so foreign, the end of my self is uncertain, and my steps out of the bath onto the dappled tile floor come unexpectedly, out of rhythm with small pools and deft feet of the indentations of the city. 

– Florence Wild

photography: Petter Dahlström Persson