“Without the audience
the artwork does not exist!”
“There is a place for
you in these paintings!”
Earth was scanned on
film. Melancholy at first, then incrementally increasing its pace spun
frantically. Flickered. Stopped. In black and white an old man circled
the land on his motorcycle, body reverberating as a droning sound left his
mouth. The museum turned into an apparatus for the arranging of light and
people’s thoughts turned to Maholy-Nagy and his beautiful
construction.
“A room that is like a
dream, a truly spiritual room, where the stagnant atmosphere is nebulously
tinted pink and blue.”
The spot on the wall
kept spinning. More holes, more motorcycles. A nude woman bathed in green light
up to and including her limits was looking at things from above, rather than
the front or the back, holding a colored pencil Roto-whatevers, preciseness and
acuity, invest invert convert relent relax control.
L-E-S-S
Look long enough, and
the word becomes unintelligible. It is made of letters: lines curved and
straight. It follows the rules, sure. Consonant, then vowel, then consonant,
consonant,
it sounds,
s-o-u-n-d-s…
f-a-m-i-l-i-a-r,
familiar. It sounds
familiar.
The word, “sounds”
familiar.
You recognize it, plain
as day, yes.
Each
of these works is a territory: a temporarily fixed quantity. Within these
territories, associative “properties” abound.
A parceling out
An allotment
A reordering of set
quantities
A round peg for a round
hole
A cut, and a repair
A motorcycle was
mentioned before. There is now a motorcycle. There is now a raking
afternoon light. There is now a raking afternoon light.
