I'm told that these things in the box used to be paintings. The canvas damaged and unwoven. Bits chopped off and strung into a book of sorts. All I see is cream wool with faint blue dye in spots. The wall to my right has the same thing again but bigger and stretched onto the wall. Another box has veils containing the charred remains of the same such paintings. She seems to be remarking on the death of the canvas. How it has been hung, drawn, quartered, flayed and finally cremated. If this is the case then I see what she's saying but it's done with such a mundane attitude that it looses anything truly interesting from a visual perspective.
A wall of waves stretched before me. Hundreds of postcards from the sea. Every one different but so many the same. Only in the detail do they differ. A different angle, a different wave, occasionally a different town. They all look the same. The same dreary hotel. The same battered peer. The same worthless postcards.
Towards the back of the exhibition she has shards of a great archive. Small veils of this and that. Boxes of interests. Cases of odd objects. Seems more like a library in a science university. I was half expecting to open a draw full of dead battles...
Dangling saucers nattering an alien language with a thousand voices. Each clamouring for attention. In a room of shouts, only the closest is heard. Short stories of mundane life. It is a very odd feeling but somehow familiar. Overhearing conversations on the train or walking through a light crowd maybe.
No comments:
Post a Comment