Oeuvres de l'exposition
How are you?
I'm liminal… like when we were really hung over sleeping on the beach and the sun got too hot to bear and you took off your sunglasses. Everything was bright and disorienting and you were a bit dizzy. Then you waded into the warm ocean and the waves were so large they knocked you over and once you were far enough out you couldn't see anything but blue.
Now I see a horse in a starting gate; he’s anxious being on the threshold of something, maybe - if he gets the wrong break when the gun is fired and shatters a leg - he’ll have to be put down with a blanket over his eyes to keep him calm and still.
Imagine late night k-holing on someone's Instagram that you don't follow, but revisit often enough that you should. Having never met in real life, when you are finally introduced face-to-face you can do nothing but pretend it is all totally new. Of course you know everything – in fact this schizophrenic bleeding of arenas has caused daily confusion. "Feels like" versus "is", when both are true enough.
When screenshots from the Internet lie with photos in the Camera Roll and pictures saved from Messages sent by friends, it's difficult to tell from the thumbnails what is really yours. But again, things are merging together too much for there to be any kind of apparent border or delineation. It’s probably not important, anyways. The horse and the threshold I described earlier? It's nothing but a deep crease in a torn out page from a magazine with the Richard Prince Marlborough Man galloping across the desert. I've had it in my desk drawer for years.
If I make a painting, it’s like icing a cake - smoothing everything over - then it belongs to me. Because now when I try and recall the time we were on the beach, it can’t be separated from the photos I saw of you on the coast alone.
I often send texts to my own phone with notes to myself but also to feel it vibrate when I receive the message; like checking someone’s vital signs. Painting could be like yelling across a room just to hear the sound of my own voice echoing.
The other day I saw a photo on your Instagram of a girl and it was sort of shot from a back/side angle and I stared at it for 10 minutes or so and couldn't tell if it was me or someone else. Finally I decided the hair was too silky and couldn't have been me.
I've never seen sunlight shining in the room like it was in that photo. I looked back yesterday to try and show my friend and it was no longer there.