I don’t know if I’ve ever had a bromance. Maybe this is the first time. Or the last. I’ve tried. But it never quite works. Maybe because I always assume that men—or 'bros'—want to fight. Almost never true. But sometimes it happens.

A guy I know taught me how to fist bump. It felt wrong, almost embarrassing, but I let him insist. I let him push me into it. And then it stuck in my body. Like a nerve twitch. You do it, you smile, as if you belong there. But really, you don’t understand a thing.

The fist bump is a boundary. Something you don’t quite know where begins or ends. A fight. Anal fisting. Or just silence. You never know.

Bromantica is a sunken ship. All bromances sink. To the bottom. Without a word.

The exhibition is curated by Nora Stangebye and Luca Sørheim.