Between boredom and creativity a fierce poetry of salvaged images, A bloody-minded ability to go on finding, constructing and experimenting. Between Sartre and Nietzsche the Technicolor migraine of existence , the soft hell of other people, flanging effects, dissociation,the record of a transient passage through … Read more

Between boredom and creativity a fierce poetry of salvaged images, A bloody-minded ability to go on finding, constructing and experimenting. Between Sartre and Nietzsche the Technicolor migraine of existence , the soft hell of other people, flanging effects, dissociation,the record of a transient passage through the naturey crap. There is something subversive here, something unilateral, unappeased, peremptory: “ I don’t care /that this/is a picture of a toilet bowl/look at it.” The telephone poles rear up like antique crosses demanding semiotic analysis, something about vertical and horizontal intertextuality. They are where we live and move and have our being. Beautiful things, wired things, things we grow bored and disgusted by . Traces are found, traces are left, oceans are edited, stairs have to be dealt with, abstraction given its head. Bicycle wheels and shadows are closely observed, bottles and shattered panes are with us until broken water is all there is to walk on. At point zero something visionary, transcendent stirs: a single intact gull wing, a mouse skeleton that lifts its arm in a gesture that seems familiar. Projecting drama , projecting love is what we do: “take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but the soles of your shoes.” These pictures have soul.They catch us in their external/internal landscapes of predilection and dereliction. They map that territory. They show us a way to wander.

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