“No Doubt Your Mother Told You The Ceiling Caved In”

A part of Thin Places. 

In No Doubt Your Mother Told You That The Ceiling Caved In, Sarah Entwistle presents a sculptural landscape embedded within a ten-channel soundscape. Engaging with the semi-permanent structure of44Møen’s Pavilion as co-agent in the work’s unfolding. The sound is created in collaboration with Farah Hazim and Susanna Gonzo.

The architecture becomes intrinsically woven into the becoming of the sculptures: ceramic elements and found building cables are suspended from, cradled by, or braced against the structural frame. This interdependence expresses a quiet yet persistent tension—a choreography of weight, counter-balance, and support, privileging negotiation over resolution. The exhibition proposes a working method rooted in relation: with the invited artists, the material and spatial logic of the pavilion, and with the materials themselves.

Entwistle’s sculptural language is tactile, responsive, and porous, modelling a processual approach that values vulnerability, and reciprocity. The exhibition’s title is drawn from letters exchanged between Entwistle’s great-grandmother, photographer Viviane Entwistle, and her grandfather, architect Clive Entwistle. These letters chronicle the cyclical collapse and repair of domestic interiors—where water seeps through ceilings, leaving mineral traces and corroding certainties. Both homes and bodies are revealed as permeable. Entwistle’s ceramic pipe forms—evoking drainage systems and biological conduits—are suspended in industrial slings, strapped into the building, or slumped on the floor. 

They register the soft fatigue of matter: a negotiation between tension and softness, form and collapse. The collaborative soundscape, presented through ten exposed speakers and ambient weather sounds of the site was composed and conceived with Farah Hazim. 

Through recorded experimentation with clarinet (Entwistle) and violin (Gonzo)sounds and silences, there is a process of auto-compose—a method allowing raw, accumulated fragments to develop an unfolding structure. The recording process became an embodied act of listening and response, where instruments—and time itself—are animate collaborators with their own resistances and textures. The speakers emit clarinet droplets with long silences in between. Silence is not absence, but waiting: condensation forming, a ceiling preparing to give in. The composition never repeats, looping unevenly across a polymetric web of samples.

As if the house exhales, the space fills and empties. Sounds appear like damp spots: some unnoticed, some spreading, some vanishing with the sun. Here, sonic and material leakage mirror each other. We hear the structure trying to contain itself—and failing, beautifully.