SUMMER COLLECTIVE

At times radiant and celebratory, at others contemplative or nostalgic, orange becomes a vehicle through which artists explore memory, landscape, identity, and transformation. Throughout the exhibition, the color appears in varied forms, guiding viewers through moments of energy and stillness while revealing its ability to shape perception and mood.

Tangerine Dreams highlights how a single hue can forge unexpected connections across artistic practices, generations, and geographies, transforming the gallery into a space of warmth, resonance, and discovery.

Accompanying the exhibition is the poem Oranges by Roisin Kelly, which we felt closely aligned with the works on display. In it, the act of carefully choosing an orange at a fruit stall becomes a metaphor for choosing a lover. The poem frames love as something physical and intuitive, rooted in touch, smell, and instinct, while also suggesting that intimacy is both reverent and consuming, leaving behind a lingering emotional trace.

Oranges

By Roisin Kelly

I’ll choose for myself next time

who I’ll reach out and take

as mine, in the way

I might stand at a fruit stall

having decided

to ignore the apples

the mangoes and the kiwis

but hold my hands above

a pile of oranges

as if to warm my skin before a fire.

Not only have I chosen

oranges, but I’ll also choose

which orange — I’ll test

a few for firmness

scrape some rind off

with my fingernail

so that a citrus scent

will linger there all day.

I won’t be happy

with the first one I pick

but will try different ones

until I know you. How

will I know you?

You’ll feel warm

between my palms

and I’ll cup you like

a handful of holy water.

A vision will come to me

of your exotic land: the sun

you swelled under

the tree you grew from.

A drift of white blossoms

from the orange tree

will settle in my hair

and I’ll know.

This is how I will choose

you: by feeling you

smelling you, by slipping

you into my coat.

Maybe then I’ll climb

the hill, look down

on the town we live in

with sunlight on my face

and a miniature sun

burning a hole in my pocket.

Thirsty, I’ll suck the juice

from it. From you.

When I walk away

I’ll leave behind a trail

of lamp-bright rind.