In the dim rooms of Culterim, once a veterinary clinic, Herwig Scherabon stages something that feels neither wholly human nor machine, neither archive nor autopsy.

‍The Clinic of the Unbodied is less an exhibition than a speculative environment—an operating theatre where the remains of animals and the spectres of data commingle, where prosthetics become fossils and nerves flicker with synthetic memory. Scherabon transforms this charged site of care and euthanasia into an uncanny choreography of posthuman intimacy: “animal bones intertwine with speculative prosthetics,” as if the future of empathy depended on a merger of biology and code.

What makes Scherabon’s work so quietly disturbing is not its sci-fi imagery but its precision of tone—a surgical poetics of repair and violation. The hybrid sculptures, all bones and biopolymers, resist the temptation of utopian futurism. Instead, they perform an autopsy on our faith in care itself. Each prosthetic joint, each glimmering implant, reads as a document of control disguised as tenderness. The question pulsing through the show—where does empathy end and domination begin?—feels less rhetorical than diagnostic.

There’s an elegance to the cruelty here. The clinical whiteness of the space—once meant to soothe—now amplifies its ghosts. Screens flicker with data patterns resembling nervous systems, while the smell of resin and steel evokes an antiseptic violence. Scherabon’s imagined clinic becomes a testing ground for ethics, a reminder that every act of healing presupposes an incision. The works do not mourn the loss of the organic; they acknowledge that the organic was never pure to begin with.

In merging animal remains with engineered components, The Clinic of the Unbodied dismantles the body as a coherent unit. Life, cognition, even affect, appear distributed—spread thinly across devices, networks, and protocols. In this new order, the body is not so much obsolete as outsourced. Scherabon’s clinic suggests that the next frontier of care will not be about curing bodies, but about reprogramming them.

The show feels eerily contemporary: a world of lab-grown empathy, algorithmic tenderness, and prosthetic desire. If Scherabon’s clinic heals anything, it’s our belief in separation—the fantasy that care and control, human and animal, machine and flesh, could ever exist apart.