EXHIBITION IMAGES | DISPATCHES | PRESS RELEASE | ARTIST PAGE
DISPATCH I | DISPATCH II | DISPATCH III | DISPATCH IV | DISPATCH V | DISPATCH VI
This is the revival of a silent picture.
The projection can be glimpsed through the cold aperture of the screen, distant and remote. It peers back through the pupil of an unblinking eye, on a mute mask, in an empty room.
I have not been myself lately. My consciousness is scattered, disordered and disassociated. Like inconvenient snow, it is shoveled this way and that way, leaden with salt, stray hairs and food packaging. I must leave myself to find myself, passing beyond the plane of this impassive screen. There lies the prospect of giving the picture a voice, the room a noise — the whole ether a resonating hum.
Ten weeks until Spring arrives. I have much to prepare.
Wrapped in plastic sheets, we journey East against a frigid rain. We arrive in this remote and abandoned place. A blank slate for us to create a splendid mess. The first task: protection from the impending storm. I must fashion a Shelter of crisp edges and rapid assembly. I place the Epson 9800 on top of the Sleeping Crate, where it surveys the room like some stone deity. Below it, I stuff the crate with carefully folded warehouse pads. My companions are weather-sealed and arranged in the Sleeping Crate so they are protected.
The Shelter is assembled and sealed as planned. I eat dinner outdoors that evening as clouds appear and moisture builds.
I slept outside last night. Exposed and alone. I wake in the dark and hear the black bear of night honing in. Restless, I fold in on myself, the moving blankets becoming a pod to cocoon me. When I rise in the morning the temperature has dropped, and everything creaks. I make coffee on the portable burner.
No sooner do I hear the moaning shack I have built. Its breathing walls feel as though they might spasm. Through the frightful night and the blinding white of the morning, I have lost my resolve. I thought I could last longer, but I cannot be alone out here. I press my ear against the shack and hear my companions yearning for autonomy. Their chants become urgent demands. They are pleading: “Doors!” “Windows!”
They always knew going out here was a bad idea, but I was insistent that we could cast ourselves away, seal us off safely. There is no way to disappear completely. Trapped behind those 8×8” planes, scrolling across those square walls I yearn to be them and they me.
I feel the ground to find my hammers.
The Shelter is situated like a compass, with a face toward every direction. We begin unpacking, organizing, creating a work flow. The first snow builds up around us. In my exhaustion I hallucinate that my hammering affects the weather, that the snow is being made solely by me as it thuds to the ground. It takes such efforts to control the weather this way. It all seems so pointless, as it comes down and then goes back up, over and over. This is a holistic ecosystem, where every action has a consequence.
During the storm, two of us sustain damage. Apparently, our heads have come loose from our bodies. Did I hallucinate this as well? Luckily, I have brought the required surgical provisions and we are back on the mend. I must forage for thermal adhesive for my companion. I introduce my companions one at a time to their new sleeping arrangements. We spend our first night as unit indoors, with one of us keeping watch all night long.
The next day, I build a vitrine for my lone companion. Now we all have a place to rest, one of us always standing guard. I depart to forage for sustenance.