In Time Machine (2011), a computer-animated fox stutters through an account of his visit to the future. Difficult to follow, the tale occasionally slides into incoherence as if the journey disrupted something in the fox’s capacity to recall and recount. Why is the fox so hard to follow? Perhaps because Danish words are slipped into the English monologue. And yet, should we really be surprised? Isn’t the improbability of time travel equal to that of a talking animal?
Projected onto an unfurled mirrored box whose open geometry fragments the surrounding space, making it difficult to delineate where the structure ends and the room begins, the fox’s image glitches along with its voice and narrative. In direct reference to H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine (1895), this works epitomises Lislegaard’s exploration of science fiction as a means to think about notions of language, politics, gender and the future. As she has stated: “I see science fiction as a laboratory where transformative scenarios and unstable ideas can be staged and tested.”