Writing on other artists.
The necessity of a reflection to give pause. Our vertical orientation can be overpowering if endured for too long. We are presented with fabric woven from mirror, wood, metal. Circular in form, waving like the softest linen it shines in bursts like the ocean. Reflecting fragments of the sky, birthing rays that connect the constellations. The many mirrors that dot the fabric align to reflect the clearest and ornate you. Standing in front of our fragments moving in cresting formations, we see what we are. If the circle of fabric stilled we would not accept the whole presented. Without emotion, the boundaries are given so harmony is foregrounded and the diluted stillness is given. The glimmering is a way out of the mist, but it is quick like a darting bird. It sends us on a path burdened with duty.
Looking into someone’s pupils. Black. A delicate desperation of the look. Not the gaze, which has a laziness implied in its pronunciation. Hinging on black. It is an intensity of a solid fixed looking. Rigid surfaces that move for nothing but impressions on the veneer. Things do not bubble from their depths, rather bottom is their appearance. We find no image only the unearthed. Sometimes dry, sometimes soaked soil. There is not one hole in the ground but several. Widening our search, control is still a factor of where we will look. Here, not there. Since we are here and digging down, to look far we must build up. Downward and upward, past light, through it. What can there be past light? The necessity of the limitless. The necessity of objects to do what we are unable to do ourselves. Transiting from past to present through an intuition being learned. Beyond the lie of truth and new, we find a relationship between materials and purpose. Believing that this could be it.
It is the result of vision. The viewer alone produces what can be seen, orbiting each work. We are required. Circular in form and in movement, their varying size reflects our limbs and consciousness. They do not attract out of excitement, but through curiosity.
The practice is stricken with a continual unchanging fervor. Slight variations come only when there is accretion and lunation. What is imagined, what is perceived is held together by their apparent weightless sobriety. In this holding there is lose and found, not lost and found. Constancy allows for our attention to sway, to ‘lose your attention’, when in collaboration with other’s constructions of the outside world we find it again. Observing the stars, there is no materiality but light. Visiting, escaping, returning, Frank O’Hara wrote “each day’s light has more significance these days” producing a concrete transience. An all inclusive astral body which lures those reluctant to look up, they demand us to be present.
I don’t want to build a bridge from one mass to another, I’ll meet you there. Our relationship allows for an intimacy where no bridge is needed. We can touch one another by reaching through space. Bringing each other closer, butting up next to each other. But distance is necessary sometimes, a dance around when things don’t seem right. One partner does not lead the other, both are equal on the dance floor. To feel the other, to recognize our partner. This only works if we confront each other with our weight. Where the weight is, scales how we move.
We begin with us. You sitting in a chair and I standing before you. A simple relationship. It is hard to hold the image of you, totally in mind. 360 degrees of you. Hard. You may drift in thought sitting for so long but - I am here, you just have to say hello. For the moment we continue to be you and I. Let my locution help form your efforts and compassions. The mystery lies not in history, but our encounter to draft time together. An empty page for us to resolve this bias, inclination, and pre-judgement, towards expression of the imagination as a breach. One piece of marble only holds one sculpture. There are no more tricks or expressions left except for the one where you get up and meet my eyes. Stone orbs, wet globules or glassy spheres have to be met here, this spot, right now. It is no longer the triumph of heroes but the life of a picked flower for the walk home. Singular, fleeting, forgetting, I already said I’d be there, so its up to you. See you soon.