We are trying to make it there, and not elsewhere. Here. Matrix. The egg. The eye. It is not simply putting things in. But it is not yet the opposite. A triumph, a tangle of truths.
By utilising the artist's most personal space, the bedromb, we are grasping at our own inconceivables. Look at your own romb. Are you there? Yes. But then not. How? For instance the bed. Here is where you grapple with all your little deaths and awakenings. It is where we fall, and where we are dragged out of. Our sheets, our skin, our sweat, our sex. There can be no single way of looking at beds: there is out, there is in, on top of, underneath. If we find beds fearful it is because they are somehow steeped in reckoning. To spend time away from one's own bed can induce inertia, fugue.
And what of walls? Here more than elsewhere is where we and others are held against. It is not to say it all becomes indubitable, but it is apparent. For you may not even begin to see it yourself, for that may be like dying.
But that is the risk, inseparable from alllure. Take that chance. Find us at our "opening."
COME IN TO MY WOMB...
This Exhibition was back in November and featured Joan Jones,Nula Murphy and a performance in which the Riando's struggled to finish the video which we are due to finish in the next month....
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